


Black Sheep

by JStevens



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bittersweet, Cheeky Draco, Cursing (of the magical and verbal variety), HP: EWE, Horcruxes, I'm Bad At Tagging, Irresponsible texting, M/M, Oblique references to past abuse, Plot, Post-Hogwarts, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Reunions, Too much alcohol, Two to a broomstick, Written Pre-Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-12 19:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 138,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9087748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JStevens/pseuds/JStevens
Summary: "Black sheep is a derogatory colloquialism in the English language meaning an outsider or one who is different in a way which others disapprove of. This can be someone who has been shunned by others, or one who has chosen to be an outsider, due to actions and aims that separate them from the rest of the people or 'flock.'"(Completed pre-DH.)





	1. In Which One Life Ends

**Author's Note:**

> This is an ancient fic written pre-DH. Just organizing all my old fics on Ao3!

**Chapter One**  
_In Which One Life Ends_

  
BUSILY WATCHING THE ROLLING HILLS to his right, the young man didn't at first notice the motorbike ahead of him. There was hardly ever anyone on the flat stretch of A4 that wandered across Wiltshire and, seeing the lone vehicle, the man sighed in annoyance. He glanced into the right lane ahead, but there was no oncoming traffic. Flicking his indicator on, he smoothly pressed the accelerator to the floor of his car, easing the old BMW into the opposite lane and overtaking the rider. Hardly sparing a glance as he passed, he pulled back into the left lane ahead of the motorbike.  
  
Hardly bothering to ease his foot off the accelerator, he flew down the country road at well over the posted speed. The green hills continued to loom around the road, and the young man looked lazily toward the slopes on his right, waiting for the tell-tale splashes of white chalk that always told him that he was almost home. It was a silly ritual, but before he had realized that, it had already become one.  
  
Something flashed through his vision, interrupting his search. It was the motorbike. The cheeky little bugger had overtaken _him_. Glancing at his speedo confirmed that he was by no means running under the posted speed and surprisingly he felt a flicker of competition, long dormant, spark to life somewhere deep inside himself. The corners of his mouth almost twitched into a smile.  
  
"Oh, now you're for it," he whispered into the hush of his car's interior. For the first time, he took proper notice of the rider in front of him. The man was crouched over a small, low bike, nearly parallel to the ground. In his car, Harry--for that was the young man's name--realized that the rider was wearing no helmet and that the bright flash which had caught his attention had come directly from the rider's fair, unprotected head.  
  
"Stupid," he murmured to himself as he pulled out alongside the bike again. He forced the accelerator all the way to the floor once more, watching his gauges as his engine jumped to 5,000 RPMs. But the bike paced him, not giving way for several long seconds. Harry's eyes darted from the rider to the road ahead, where oncoming traffic might approach at any bend. Just before he was about to give in and fall back behind the motorbike, he glanced to the left to find an empty road. The rider had given way.  
  
The hint of a grin growing, Harry slid back into the proper lane, glancing back at the bike in his wing mirror. His heart was pounding and adrenaline was singing in his veins for the first time in perhaps years. Yet his triumphant glow couldn't last long because the rider wasted no time pulling alongside Harry again. Just as Harry had moments before, the rider now hovered precariously in the opposite traffic lane as they tore down the speedway together. He could have passed Harry without much trouble but rather the rider drew alongside the vintage car for a purposeful moment and--just as Harry tore his eyes from the road ahead of them to glance at him questioningly--gave a mocking salute with one hand and moved to take the lead again.  
  
He hardly had to try, though, for his opponent was suddenly gone. Harry had slammed on his brakes, leaving the squeal of burning rubber and an acrid smoke in his wake. The suddenness of his stop sent the fine old car into a spin, and Harry let go of the wheel, helplessly watching the familiar countryside whirl past his windscreen.  
  
Hearing the screech of tires, the rider immediately jerked around to see what had happened. He wasn't used to the Muggle contraption enough to check in his mirrors at such an unthinking moment and his hands, still gripping the handlebars, jerked the whole bike around with him, as if he were riding a broomstick and not 200 kg of metal and science. He had a moment's vision of the car he'd been racing with spinning a dozen metres behind him, but then he was flying and could see nothing but the brilliantly blue sky above, punctuated by picturesquely fluffy clouds.  
  
Back in the car, Harry thought he saw the bike go down in the blur of the scenery, but couldn't be sure because before he made even one more revolution, his car had finally travelled sideways enough to strike one of the undulating hills and everything came to an abrupt stop. Harry flew sideways into his door, his head striking the frame, and his last thought as everything bled to black was a disbelieving name--a name from his past, one he never thought he'd have to remember:  
  
_Draco Malfoy?_  
  
  
  
  
Harry woke with a pounding pain in the right side of his head and an aching jaw. He pried his eyes open to look around himself dazedly and didn't recognize a thing. He was in a small room by himself, laid out on top of an equally small bed. He blinked slowly and felt a radiating pain each time he did. Reaching one weak hand up, he gingerly prodded the skin of his face. Reaching his temple, he expected to feel tender, bruised bone, but his fingers brushed against a thick bandage instead. Someone had bandaged him. He felt around the rough gauze and then let his fingers prod his tender jaw bones, grimacing, then trying not to grimace as he discovered the pain of moving his mouth.  
  
An old man whom he vaguely recognized let himself into the room, and suddenly Harry knew where he was--the one doctor's surgery in his village. He had seen the doctor around, but generally had as little to do with him as he had with any of his other fellow villagers. The doctor obviously knew who he was, though, as he addressed him by name, "Ah, Mr Potter. I see you are back among us."  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes unsurely, and the old man continued, "Among the living, that is. Old Marcella Uppington--you know, the widow who works in the grocery--found you and another young man out on the A4. An accident, was there?"  
  
And then Harry remembered what had happened, remembered what had sent him careening off the road. Ignoring the pain in his jaw, he asked in a fearful tone, "What of the other man?"  
  
The doctor had come up to the bedside and was shining a penlight into Harry's eyes, apparently checking his responses. He muttered to himself "Doesn't appear concussed," before answering the younger man's question. "He's in the next room. It's a miracle that he made it out as well as he did. No major injuries, just a dislocated shoulder and some minor abrasions. Both vehicles fared less fortuitously, though."  
  
Harry wasn't sure if he was more relieved or dismayed to hear that Malfoy was relatively well and in the next room--for there was no doubt in his mind that it had been Draco Malfoy on that bike. Things would have been simpler if the other wizard had kindly disappeared. Or died, even. But no--Harry would have to get rid of the man himself. "Could..." The words stuck in his mouth painfully, but he forced them out. "Could I see him?"  
  
The old doctor seemed satisfied enough with Harry's physical responses and so agreed, helping him up from his bed. Although the pain in his head surged, Harry felt steady enough on his feet and followed the doctor out of the room and into the narrow hall of the ancient surgery. The next door was open and there was no sound of threatening curses or anything else he might have expected. There was no sound of anything. Yet the foot of a bed could be seen and someone was obviously lying in it, a blanket drawn over them. Harry stood outside the door, painfully unprepared to walk into his past.  
  
"What is it, Mr Potter?" the doctor's dry voice asked from the area behind his shoulder. Harry opened his mouth to respond and winced at the pain in his jaw, but of course there was no easy way to explain that he hadn't seen the other wizard since... Well, not since a past which he didn't want to remember, let alone come face-to-face with.  
  
A slurred voice issued from the room. "Potter? Merlin's beard, not Potter."  
  
There was no mistaking that voice, steeped in its familiar sneering tones. Harry finally stepped into the room and saw a grown Draco Malfoy glaring blearily up at him from a single bed, just like the one Harry had woken up in.  
  
Draco himself was still unmistakable. His white-blond hair, just like his parents' had been, remained an unlikely silvery white rarely seen outside of babies and perhaps Veelas. The eyes squinting at him were the same inscrutable grey that Harry remembered from schoolday scuffles in the halls of Hogwarts, though they were set in a gaunt adult's face which looked more than ever as if it had been carved from marble.  
  
"We sedated him to reduce the joint," the doctor started, only to break off when he saw the blank look on Harry's face. "To put his joint back into place. Ever since then, he's been nattering on about God only knows what. We can't make heads or tails of it," the doctor said, trying to explain away the Wizarding phrases that would sound like nonsense to any Muggle.  
  
Still not sure that he wanted to accept this piece of his past into his present life and even less sure that he wouldn't rather leave Malfoy to rot, Harry heard himself asking the doctor to leave the two of them alone. With only one dubious look, the old man left, heading for his office. He pointedly left the door open behind him. And then Harry stepped into his worst nightmare: his past.  
  
He moved into the small spill of light from the one tabletop lamp in the room, placed on the bedside table. The faint sunlight that trickled in around the curtains was dusky. It was late afternoon--several hours must have passed since the accident. What had happened to his car, he wondered. Could he repair it with something like a simple _reparo_ or would he have to take it to a Muggle shop? Either way, it looked like he would be walking for a while.

Harry was stalling, and he knew it. He shook his head to clear it of any thoughts of his car, groaned at the pain it caused, and forced himself to look at the man in front of him. The blond man was trying somewhat futilely to focus on Harry and when he gave up, he gave an exasperated snort. He drawled in a distinctly slurred voice, "Harry Potter. To what do I owe this great pleasure?"  
  
Harry blinked his green eyes, no longer hidden behind his trademark round glasses. He'd had them fixed just before...  
  
The reason he blinked was surprise over the man on the bed in front of him. Just what had the doctor given him as a sedative? Malfoy seemed more than a little drunk. He was still glaring blearily at Harry. His gestures were overblown and his tone of voice suggested that he sincerely believed this all to be a dream. _If only I were so lucky,_ Harry thought bitterly. But it was time to deal with reality.  
  
"Well, Mr Malfoy, there has been an accident. Do you remember what happened?" He spoke like a stranger and hoped that Malfoy would do the same, but he was to have no luck today.  
  
The blond tried to raise a light eyebrow sardonically, but it just sort of wobbled and he gave up in favour of speech. He adopted the serious manner that the drunk often do, painting his story with great embellished phrases. "Well, yes, _Mr_ Potter, I can in fact remember a few brief hours back. I was travelling along on the A4, when some git in a sports car--shall I presume that would be you?" He seemed to be asking rhetorically, flailing a slender hand at Harry's bandaged head, for he barrelled on, "Some git overtook me for no reason. And here I was already exceeding the speed limit as it was. I was galled by said git and overtook him in turn. Well, you know what happened from there. A competition of sorts was formed, but then suddenly I was on my tod with only some tire tracks to keep me company. I turned round to see what happened to my erstwhile challenger and sent my own bike out of control and myself flying. I tried a little of _this_ and a little of _that_ ," he gestured broadly, swishing and flicking an imaginary wand in turn, " _Levioso!_ But to no avail. Gravity won out, and I came to here in the most uncomfortable of circumstances." He finished with a flourish that almost resembled a bow. "Does that satisfy your curiosity, _Mr_ Potter?"  
  
Harry's eyebrows were beetling together. He knew he mustn't strike an injured person but it was so very tempting. He sincerely hoped it was simply the influence of the drugs that was making the former Slytherin so loquacious. Though it shouldn't matter to him either way. "Where is your wand now, Malfoy?" he asked flatly. He was still holding onto the hope that the other man would just apparate out of his life as abruptly as he had entered it.  
  
The blond looked at his empty hands in genuine surprise. "Where _is_ my wand now?"  
  
Harry left the room without a word and headed down the hall until he found a coherent human being to speak to. He asked the doctor impatiently, "How long until those bloody drugs wear off him? I can't talk to him like this."  
  
The old man frowned at Harry's rough language and replied a bit curtly, "Within a hour or two, I should expect." He paused and then asked more shrewdly, "Would I be mistaken in my impression that you know the patient, Mr Potter?"  
  
Harry gaped for a moment, but of course it _was_ true. "I do," he admitted, "though we haven't seen hide nor hair of each other for nearly five years."  
  
"Do you know who we should contact then?"  
  
"Contact?" Harry repeated faintly.  
  
"Someone will have to come round to collect him, Mr Potter."  
  
Harry bit his cheek and then said tonelessly, "I'll ask." But he thought he already knew the answer.  
  
He forced himself to walk back into the little room, much as he wanted to turn around, walk out of the surgery's front door and keep walking till he got back to his own little house. He looked at the blond on the bed, whose eyes were following what seemed to be nothing around the room. How could someone be so irritating when doing nothing as all? Harry snapped, "What _are_ you doing, Malfoy?"  
  
"Watching dust motes," the other replied with an indifferent ease. "It really is disgusting, how filthy this place is. Is that what you're so worked up about?"  
  
"No," he said shortly. "The doctor would like to know who to have collect you."  
  
The silver eyes looked at him sharply, seeming to actually see Harry for the first time. "You know there's no one," he said flatly.  
  
Harry cleared his throat awkwardly and muttered, "Yes, well, I thought things might have changed in the past five years..."  
  
But it was too late. The blond's infuriating good humour was gone, and he said bitterly, "Nothing has changed. Now leave me alone, Potter. I don't want you in my dream any more."  
  
_Did you ever?_ Harry thought in exasperation, as he watched the blond turn away sulkily. He stood for a moment, watching the narrow back, then walked out of the room again. He poked his head into the doctor's office and explained quickly, "He says there's no one to call. But I'll get out of your way and off to home now."  
  
With that he tried to leave, but the doctor followed him, exclaiming, "Mr Potter, _please_! First off, I did not clear you to leave. Secondly, I think you have some responsibility to the patient, since you appear to have been involved in an accident with him, and thirdly, you are the only one who has the foggiest idea who he is! My word, I'd heard that you were unsociable but to turn your back on an injured friend!"  
  
But this didn't shame Harry as it might have once and he said resolutely, "He is not my friend, and I believe it is your job to take care of injured persons, not mine."  
  
The doctor's voice rose in indignation. "Mr Potter, this is a village surgery, not a grand hospital. I do not keep patients overnight. I close these doors and I go to my own home. If you will not tell me where to send this man, then I will send him to _you_ , since you are his only connection in the area."  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes angrily. Lord, his head hurt. He knew that the doctor couldn't actually force him to take Malfoy, but he could call up the local police and get Harry cited for a hit-and-run if he really wanted to make things miserable. Of course, Harry knew there'd been no actual hitting involved, most unfortunately. At this moment, he wouldn't have hesitated a moment at the chance to hit Malfoy with a car.  
  
The blond's appearance had led to Harry injuring himself, ruining his car, antagonizing his fellow villagers, and remembering a past he did not want to. And despite all these grievances, there was still the sore feeling that he _owed_ Malfoy. He tried never to think of those days but when the memories did sneak up on him, during nightmares or drunken fantasies, he still always felt... _uncomfortable_ with how he had used the other man, when they'd both been boys of seventeen; one a Death Eater, the other the Chosen One. It hadn't been his idea, of course. Malfoy had come to him.  
  
Would he be able to forget it all if he got rid of Malfoy? If he did this one little thing for the other man?  
  
Would it change what he had done to him?  
  
"Fine," he snapped and then strode back one last time to the room where Draco Malfoy lay. The other wizard was still turned away and Harry wasted no time jerking the sheet from the thin man and dragging him up to a sitting position. "We're going, Malfoy."  
  
The blond looked up at him in annoyance and said, "I thought I told you to leave me alone. And going where?"  
  
"Home."  
  
"I haven't one." And with that, the blond flopped back onto the bed despondently.  
  
Muttering to himself, "Well, I have," he grabbed the thin man's arms and pulled his former rival up and off the bed to a standing position. The blond weaved unsteadily, his light eyes nearly crossing, and Harry pulled the uninjured of the weak man's thin arms around his own shoulders, holding it there with his hand gripping Malfoy's. He looped his other arm around Malfoy's waist, his fingers digging uncomfortably into the distinct grooves between his ribs and brushing against the brace which held his bad arm in place. Commanding Malfoy to walk, he started forward, half-carrying the shuffling Malfoy and staggering out the doorframe. They passed the doctor without stopping and he jumped in front of them to hold the front door open. Harry didn't say a word of thanks for their treatment and, with a resentful glare, he was gone.  
  
It was a long walk to Harry's isolated house. Before five minutes were up, Harry was tired and his head was pounding. There was almost no one on the high street, even though it could have only been eight o'clock in the evening. That was village life for you. Fifteen minutes later, long after they had left the high street and the village main, they passed into the countryside surrounding the village. Here there were rolling fields, full of waist-high grasses, waving and glinting in the weak evening light. Occasionally a tree stood solitary upon a hill, perfecting the pastoral scene. It was obvious why Harry's parents had picked this place. He couldn't imagine that anywhere could seem more peaceful. Soon enough they passed the ruins that once been Harry's first home, decades ago. Harry nodded to the rubble, as he always did, and the movement almost sent the two of them pitching over.  
  
Groaning at the nearly blinding pain in his head, Harry forced himself down the lane to his own home. The front door opened to his kick and then they were inside. Immediately he dropped Malfoy to the floor. The blond protested in his drunken manner, failing to catch himself with his arm bound to his side, but Harry was already gone. He had staggered into his sitting room and collapsed onto the couch there, closing his eyes blissfully.  
  
As his heart slowed and ceased thundering in his ears, he began to notice a faint babble coming from his entryway. As he focussed on it, the sounds began to form words: "...really, what a shock. This isn't at all how my dreams usually go. Where's all the gold? The virgins? The adoring masses? No, I had to dream of bloody Harry bleeding Potter. Well, sod that. I'm ready to wake up now! Hear that? I'm ready to WAKE UP!"  
  
There was a crazy man bellowing in his entry way. Harry pushed himself up with a curse and went back into the hall. He grabbed the blond like a ragdoll and half-dragged him to the one extra bedroom in his small home. Unceremoniously, he dumped the man onto the bed there and ordered him to, "Go to sleep."  
  
"No, you miss the point as always, Potter. I want to _wake up_ \--"  
  
But Harry closed the door on him and stumbled back to his inviting couch.  
  
  
  
  
The next morning, Draco opened his eyes to stare at an unfamiliar ceiling. He craned his head from side to side to stare at an unfamiliar room. His shoulder ached and seemed to be bound to his side. This wasn't the manor or any other place he knew, and that all meant one thing: It hadn't been a dream.  
  
_Oh, bugger._


	2. In Which One Life Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Black sheep is a derogatory colloquialism in the English language meaning an outsider or one who is different in a way which others disapprove of. This can be someone who has been shunned by others, or one who has chosen to be an outsider, due to actions and aims that separate them from the rest of the people or 'flock.'"

**Chapter Two**  
_In Which A New Life Begins_

  
  
DRACO DIDN'T MOVE. HE THOUGHT. If the night before truly hadn't been a dream, then this must be Harry Potter's home. Godric's Hollow, or so the doctor had told him. Choosing to ignore for the moment how appropriately moronic and Gryffindoric it was that Harry "I was born wearing red and gold" Potter lived in _Godric's_ Hollow, he tried to work out his own situation, forcing himself along a productive line. He was stuck at Potter's. There the line ended.  
  
He hadn't seen the Boy Wonder since they'd both been seventeen. It had been nearly five years. And the last he'd heard of any of it, Harry Potter had disappeared right after the Dark Lord had. Not dead, word had it, and certainly not beaten by Voldemort, but beaten nonetheless.  
  
And yet here Draco Malfoy, without meaning to in the least, had stumbled upon the famous recluse's hiding spot. Here in Wiltshire, just a stone's throw from his own family's manor. Well, a stone thrown by someone very, very strong, that is.  
  
The knowledge didn't give him the thrill it might have once. He didn't want to out Potter to the Wizarding world. If he did so, he'd have to see the git's face on every paper front for the rest of his life. No, he would be perfectly happy to forget that the Boy Who Lived had lived and would not be opposed to having every other wizard or witch on the planet do the same. What he wanted now was to get away from the other man's hideaway and forget about this entire incident.  
  
Listening hard, Draco could hear no sign of another live person in the little house. He slowly sat up, then used his one free hand to wrestle his way out of the brace keeping one of his arms immobile. Once he had flung it across the small room, he rotated his sore shoulder and had a look around. The bed he lay on was covered in white sheets and a white duvet. The walls were also white, with not a single decoration. He slide from the bed and opened the door to the hall, peering around it cautiously. The hall was white. Potter's renowned sense of fashion obviously hadn't changed much. At least the place didn't look like a Gryffindor's den, though, since Draco didn't think he would have been able to handle all that red and gold on an empty stomach.  
  
To his left was a closed door, presumably leading to another bedroom. To his right, the hall led straight to the front door. It was tempting to just walk out then and there, but where could he go? He had no money, muggle or otherwise, no wand, and now he had no vehicle. He was going to have to ask Potter for help. Draco grimaced unhappily.  
  
Instead of running pell-mell out the front door, he walked into the sitting room. He was not disappointed to find it white. The only furniture in the room was a very comfortable- but tatty-looking couch and a decently sized television on a table. The other end of the room became the kitchen without so much as a wall or partition, and Draco wrinkled his nose distastefully. At the Manor--hell, even at Hogwarts--one would never have even seen the kitchens, would never know they existed but for the food that came from them. They certainly wouldn't be open to a _sitting room._  
  
Nonetheless, there was the small table with four chairs, all looking like they'd never been used, and there behind them a bare and apparently Muggle kitchen. He noticed a piece of paper on the cheap table and moved cautiously to pick it up. It simply read, _Take what you need_.  
  
"What is there to possibly take?" he asked the empty room sarcastically, before he caught himself. He studied the note. That spiky handwriting hadn't changed since their schooldays. Equally unmistakable was the unwritten message: _...and leave._  
  
Draco glanced at the squashy couch. He sat down on it. He looked around the white room. He got up and walked to the window, looking out at a surprisingly vibrant garden. He went and sat back down. He jiggled his foot.  
  
"Oh, bugger."  
  
He stood up again and went back into the hall. The door at the end stood ominously shut tight. Unable to help himself, he snuck up to the door practically on tip-toes and put an ear to it cautiously. He held his breath. There were no noises from within. Still not daring to breathe, he turned the handle and let the door swing open with a gentle push.  
  
In the room was another plain white bed and a single cheap-looking wardrobe. Again there were no photos or decorations. And lying on that plain bed, fast asleep, was the master of the house. Draco felt stupid for his stealthy approach and said snidely (but still quietly) to the unconscious man, "Some honed warrior you are. Don't even notice someone sneaking into your own room."  
  
Draco's hand twitched and a mischievous smile suddenly curved across his face. He held his hands up in front of his body, outstretched as if to throttle someone, and started to slowly approach the bed. In his head, there was a dramatic tune playing. There was often music playing in Draco's head. He loomed over the man on the bed, whose eyelashes curled against his cheeks and who was snoring lightly in his sleep. His hands lowered, inches away from that tawny skin. Harry continued to sleep, unawares. Draco's fingers practically itched with the warmth that he could feel from the skin, just millimetres below. And just before he could have grasped the man's throat in his long, thin fingers, green eyes popped open and Draco found himself staring face-to-face with a very awake Harry Potter.  
  
Oh, bugger.  
  
Back-pedalling both physically and verbally, he stammered, "Ah, no. It isn't what--I was just-- _bugger_." He stopped when he hit the wall behind him and gave a weak smirk. "Can't you take a joke?"  
  
The silence stretched and Draco prayed for the other man to say something. After an agonizing ten seconds, which felt like ten minutes to Draco, the black-haired man sat up and narrowed his eyes in feigned confusion. "What are you doing here?"  
  
Draco waved one hand airily and said, "I seem to recall that you _brought_ me here."  
  
"No, what are you _still_ doing here?"  
  
"Ah." Draco repeated the inventory that he had come up with earlier: "No money, no magic, no motorcycle."  
  
Harry dropped back onto his bed and ground out, "So if we find your wand, you will apparate back out of my life?"  
  
It was with a very sincere face that Draco promised "I would love nothing more." He didn't mention, though, that it was categorically impossible.  
  
"Fine. Shove off and I'll come find you to have a look for it." And with that encouraging statement, Harry rolled over and buried his face in his pillow, trying his damnedest to fall back asleep.  
  
Draco seriously considered continuing to pester the dark man, but chose the smarter course of backing out of the room. He had already seen about everything the house had to offer and so he walked out the front door and into the garden he had glimpsed before. Draco was more familiar with the well-ordered and manicured gardens that were found at the Manor and other fine places, but he found that the wild raucousness of flowers and shrubs around him was also strangely appealing. The plants seemed to be dripping off of one another, cascading from the stone wall that cut most of the garden off from the lane and barely missing the rough stone path that led around the small house, in streams of bright colour. Completely undignified yet somehow... attractive.  
  
Having caught a glimpse of the lane, though, between all the splashes of blooming colour, he made for it. It was a regular unmade road, common in little villages like this. As he walked up it, little puffs of white dust kicked up around him and immediately began to dull his black shoes and lighten his pant-cuffs. _Godric's Hollow..._ Why was the name familiar? He felt sure that he had heard it sometime before the previous night.  
  
Draco started up the lane, still chewing on the name, and arrived at the next isolated lot. At first he thought that it was undeveloped wilderness, but then he saw the doorstop nestled among the weedy grasses. Once he'd recognized the flat piece of stone that represented a home, the remains of beams and crumbling bricks walls, half-hidden beneath the wild growth, suddenly popped out at him like a trick picture. _The ruins of a house... Godric's Hollow... Of course!_ He understood with a start. It was part of the legend. Godric's Hollow was where Lily Potter, James Potter, and Voldemort himself had all met their fates, over twenty years before.  
  
_Bit morbid_ , he thought to himself, _living next to the house where your parents were murdered_. The sooner he was out of here the better. He didn't want to deal with losses of the past.  
  
He continued down the lane, occasionally passing a quiet house. But he saw no one else and nothing was familiar. He massaged his shoulder. He wanted to be at the Manor. There was security there. Dependability. Even though it was those selfsame feelings that had driven him out on his motorcycle the previous day. He sighed and flopped down into the grass next to the lane. Nothing would ever feel right again. He knew it. After all, what could be right when he had--  
  
"Malfoy!" An irritable voice called out to him. Draco popped up from the grasses that had hidden him. He sat there waiting, the waving grass up to his shoulders and his tousled head sticking out like a dandelion puff. Harry was standing far down the lane, clothed in a pair of scruffy jeans and a faded t-shirt that might've once been crimson. He noticed the blond and started up the lane, saying, "Let's go then. The sooner we get this over with, the better."  
  
Draco stood up and dusted off the legs of his trousers. He waited for Harry to draw parallel to his resting spot and then stepped out into the road, easily pacing next to the other man. "So is it very far, then?" he asked casually. Harry's only response was a glare and so he exclaimed in a slightly affronted tone, " _What_?"  
  
"I think that's my line," Harry said, glaring down at his dirty trainers. He turned purposefully on the blond and gave him a searching look. "Are those drugs still affecting you?"  
  
Draco held his fingers up to his face and wriggled them experimentally. He held his arms out next and took turns touching his index fingers to his nose, never missing a beat. He declared, "No, I don't believe so."  
  
Harry continued to look at him askance, seeming even more unhappy. "Then this is normal?"  
  
The blond shrugged. "'Fraid so."  
  
Harry seemed to be struggling with something and he finally forced out, "Don't you hate me?"  
  
Draco pursed his lips and thought long and seriously about his answer as they continued to trudge along the lane. "I suppose so. But what does it matter now? I don't know you. And after today we may never have to meet again."  
  
"'What does it matter'...?"  
  
Harry wasn't used to being so casually dismissed and Draco could see that he was having trouble with it. He told the other man, "Look, Potter, it's been six years since we both left school. That's as long as we were even at Hogwarts. It's been a long time and believe it or not, my life is no longer centred upon quidditch wins or potions grades."  
  
"I wish mine still was," Harry murmured and then blinked when he realized he'd said it aloud.  
  
"Yeah. Me, too," Draco admitted easily. "Things seemed much simpler back then."  
  
"But then...what do you do now? After we..." Harry trailed off and then his tone suddenly changed as he said brusquely, "Never mind." He picked up his pace, leaving Draco in his wake and the blond let him.

Harry didn't understand why he was talking to the Dark wizard. He had lived for nearly five years here in Godric's Hollow, the Muggle village his parents had stayed in. And in all that time, he hadn't contacted anyone from his old life, hadn't kept an owl, had no fireplace for floo. It wasn't that he didn't practise magic. He still did, when the occasion arose. But he had no desire to be part of the magical world.  
  
His only contact with another magical being for years had been his sporadic visits from Ginny. Every couple weeks or months she'd pop by. Sometimes he would see her but most times he would not. As far as he could tell, no one else knew that he was here.  
  
And he'd been happy like that. Or at least he'd been used to that. He lived a modest life, spent his days cooking and gardening and cleaning and walking. He'd enjoyed flying around the countryside in his vintage car, but that wouldn't be happening anymore, he supposed. Still, he'd been satisfied with how his life worked. So why did he now have the urge to chat with Draco Malfoy about the past as if it were the most natural thing in the world?  
  
He needed to get rid of the other man. He didn't want any ties to the Wizarding world. He didn't want to remember the past. He didn't. Did he?  
  
Shaking his head at himself, as if his life would fall back into place with the movement, he led Draco through the village square. Or actually, he charged through the village square and left it up to Draco to follow if he would. They drew quite a bit of attention, as no one had ever seen the reclusive Potter with another person and because, as happens in small communities, everyone already had heard about the mysterious accident and Mr Potter's shocking behaviour at the doctor's surgery.  
  
Not slowing down for a moment, Harry stalked down the high street and Draco ambled along behind him, smiling genially and examining the curious bystanders with as much frank attention as they were giving him. He couldn't help thinking of how anywhere that Potter had gone at Hogwarts, he had been followed by a chorus of greetings (or jibes, depending on popular sentiment at the time). Now no one called out to him, friendly or otherwise.  
  
They left the village behind and headed out on the empty road where they'd met, as it were, the previous day. As they passed out of view, Draco turned around and waved broadly to the village. Harry didn't turn around, but Draco knew that the other man was on the edge of an angry outburst. This was the most fun he'd had in years. He'd nearly forgotten how much he loved attention, of any kind. Back at the Manor, the only attention he got was from Merry, the house elf.  
  
He turned back to following Harry along the winding road. It wasn't very familiar yet and they kept trudging along. Draco bit down on the urge to whinge, "Are we there yet?" He wasn't sure that he liked having Potter ignore him. He started to sing, instead. It wasn't anything that bad; an old chart-topper from their school days. And Draco had a decent enough voice, though he surely wouldn't win any awards for it. Still he could see Potter practically twitching with annoyance, his shoulders hitching up a notch more with every verse. Finally Harry burst out, "God, what is _wrong_ with you?"  
  
He had whirled around to give Draco the full brunt of his ire, but the blond just shrugged and kept walking, forcing Harry to pace along backwards as long as he wanted to continue his glare. Draco said, "I've lived for five years alone with a house elf, Potty. And I have to say that I'm just _tickled_ to be among intelligent creatures." He eyed Harry with something akin to his old sharpness and amended to himself, "Well, semi-intelligent, anyway."  
  
Once again Harry had no way to respond and so Draco continued blithely, "You know, your rapier wit seems to have suffered much more than mine over the years."  
  
Harry continued to stare, then blinked several times and muttered weakly, "Perhaps I need a house elf, too."  
  
Draco grinned and applauded him mockingly. "Spot on, Potter. That was almost a retort. A couple more hours and you may be back to form."  
  
Frowning in confusion, Harry turned back away and walked forward again. Draco resumed his song. They arrived at a more familiar stretch of road, with telltale tire tracks and bits of broken glass. Harry stopped at the first collection of metal bits and glass pebbles. Both vehicles were gone, presumably towed off while the two of them had been lying in the surgery.  
  
"This is where your bike seems to have gone down and then you were thrown into the hill. So start looking."  
  
Draco gave a Gallic shrug and set off into the scrub, knowing full well that he was looking for something that couldn't be found. But Harry seemed fixed on this whole "find-the-wand-and-apparate-the-hell-out-of-my-life" idea. So Draco let him run with it.  
  
They searched arbitrarily, starting at the base of the gentle hill, right on the edge of the road, and fanning up and out. The sun climbed higher in the sky and beat down on their backs as they bent over the wild grasses. Very occasionally, a small car would potter by. Draco was beginning to feel distinctively grubby in his clothes, which had already been rolled in this dirt yesterday, been slept in, and now were being sweated upon above all that. He sat down and declared, "We're never going to find it. I want a bath."  
  
Harry, about three metres to his right, also flopped down in the tall grasses. He admitted, "You're right. We'll never find it like this." He seemed to think about the problem for a long while and Draco happily laid in the grass, staring up at the sky, for that long while. The former Gryffindor finally seemed to arrive at an idea and asked, "What does your wand look like? Precisely now."  
  
Draco felt a surprising pang in his chest, but his voice came out casual. "Let's see... it was the palest of birches, nearly white. About eleven inches long, just as long as my forearm. The grain was even--no knots or whorls. The tip came to a fine point and the handle was inlaid with purest platinum, fine as a veela's hair."  
  
"I need you to be more specific. Did it form some kind of pattern? And how wide was the wand around?"  
  
Draco tried to remember and was surprised to find that he could, as if he really had just held the wand yesterday. It had been just a bit wider than his thumb, he told Harry, at its base. "And I already told you that it tapered to a point. The inlays did form patterns. They started from a solid platinum base, capping the wand, and shaped like a pentagram or a flower. Lines extended from each point of the pentagram and spiralled around the wand shaft..." He broke off and swallowed, smiling tightly.  
  
The other man had drawn his own wand and had his eyes closed in concentration. He waved his wand and called, " _Accio_ Malfoy's wand." They both waited for several tense moments, but no slender piece of wood come whizzing at their heads.  
  
Draco sighed and laid back against the hillside. "Why don't you do something useful with that thing," he said, "and summon us something to eat?"  
  
Harry didn't want to be taking any orders from Malfoy, but he was also damned hungry, since neither of them had had anything to eat since the previous afternoon. He tried to recall what was in his pantry at the moment and then with a moment's concentration, summoned up a loaf of thick country bread and half a wheel of some mysterious white cheese that he'd picked up at the market the week before. He tore a hunk of bread off the loaf and then, after only one doubtful look, lobbed it at Draco. He rather hoped it would strike the blond man, but with a Seeker's instict, Malfoy shot one slender hand out to grab the missile out of the air.  
  
Feeling childish, Harry kept the cheese for himself, deciding that Malfoy would have to ask him for it if he really wanted any. He broke off a piece of the hard cheese and shoved it in his mouth with a too-large lump of bread. He realized his mistake a moment later, when the pain in his jaw came shooting back to life, sparking off fireworks in his skull. As he stubbornly chewed on the mass in his mouth, he watched Draco out of the corner of his eye. The other man had torn a more moderately sized piece of bread from the loaf and was chewing it thoughtfully.  
  
They really needed to find that wand, Harry decided.  
  
He swallowed his wad with only the slightest appearance of discomfort and tore off another, more reasonably sized piece. He looked down at the cheese in his hands, then glanced at Malfoy again. The blond was still tearing off little balls of bread and popping them in his mouth. Harry's fingers dug slightly into the dry cheese. He chewed his food furiously and tried to think of other spells or charms that might locate Malfoy's wand in this mess of weeds and grass.  
  
What if they couldn't find the wand? Could he just hire a taxi for the other man and send him off? Would that be enough to pay back his debt? If he was even acknowledging that he had a debt to the other man. Why should he, after all? After everything that Malfoy had done to him during their six years at Hogwarts, why should he owe the other man for just one night?  
  
As if he could read Harry's mind, Draco stopped tearing off pieces of bread and asked into the warm, silent spring air, "So, Potter... I've been wondering for quite a while now. And since I've got you here and all..." He looked over at Harry with those inscrutable grey eyes and asked mildly, "What ever happened after you left me for dead?"


	3. In Which A Sacrifice Is Made

**Chapter Three**  
_In Which A Sacrifice Is Made_

  
HARRY CHOKED ON THE CHEESE and bread, which suddenly felt like ashes in his mouth. He forced himself to swallow them and then wasted several moments running his tongue over his teeth. Finally he asked, "Do you really need to know?"  
  
Malfoy turned those bright grey eyes on him and said simply, "Well, yes." He cocked his head to the side and reminded Harry, "After all, I got you the horcrux, didn't I? And sacrificed myself for it."  
  
Harry winced, not wanting to remember that night, not wanting to remember how Malfoy had screamed... He was only momentarily drawn away from the memory by the present Malfoy telling him calmly, "I should think that my sacrifices rather entitle me to hear what happened afterwards."  
  
Harry cursed to himself. This was exactly what he had hoped to avoid by getting rid of the other man. He swallowed uncomfortably and continued to stare fixedly at the hills opposite them. He whispered woodenly, "Couldn't you just forget it all?"  
  
Draco half-smiled and replied unhesitatingly, "No, you'll find that I really couldn't. Not that."  
  
It had been nearly a year after Dumbledore's death when Draco Malfoy had suddenly shown up, bedraggled and alone, before Harry. Although 'shown up before Harry' was perhaps not as accurate as saying that he had in fact 'snuck up on, accosted and _stupefied_ Harry'. Harry had been furious when he had been _ennervated_ and found himself bound to a chair and wandless before a desperate-looking Malfoy.  
  
"You bastard, Malfoy," he'd spat into the pale, drawn face. "What the hell do you think you're do-" He rather unwillingly broke off, as suddenly no sound was coming from his moving mouth. The ragged-looking blond was gripping his wand with a shaking hand, his knuckles white. There was something crazed and desperate in those grey eyes and Harry was disgusted to realize that he was reminded of Sirius.  
  
"Here's what the hell I think I am doing, Potter. I am helping you."  
  
That would have shocked Harry into silence if the Silencing spell hadn't already done the trick. Malfoy almost managed a tight smirk when he saw Harry's expression, but it quickly disappeared in his grim face. "This is last thing Severus Snape told me to do before he..." the boy's voice faded to almost nothing and he swallowed hard. "He told me to find you. And then to take you to the horcrux."  
  
Harry might have thought that he couldn't be more shocked, but that last bombshell blew out any synapses that might have still been flickering weakly in his brain.  
  
Snape...  
  
...the traitor, Snape...  
  
...knew about the _horcruxes_?  
  
They were all fucked.  
  
As Malfoy removed the Silencing spell, one half of Harry's mind was already hatching ways of blocking Voldemort before he could make a move. But then the other half of his mind caught up and said reasonably, _Look, here's Malfoy. Malfoy knows where a horcrux is._ He narrowed his eyes up at his captor and started talking. "What horcrux is that, then?" They'd already gotten back the real locket and the snake and Hufflepuff's cup. But Harry had no leads on the last horcrux. Could Malfoy really take him to it?  
  
The blond glared hatefully but revealed what he knew, "It's the last horcrux of course. Something of Ravenclaw's, as you should know."  
  
"Do you understand what a horcrux is?"  
  
Malfoy looked away, his usually light grey eyes suddenly dark. "Yes, Potter, perhaps even better than you yourself do. They are pieces of the soul."  
  
The Death Eater really did know what he was talking about. If this was all a trick on Voldemort's part, would he have trusted the boy enough to reveal the truth about his 'immortality'? Harry chewed on his lip for a moment, then asked, "How do you know about the horcrux?"  
  
"Snape told me."  
  
"Yes, but how did Snape know?"  
  
Malfoy's eyes back to meet Harry's and they were full of some unreadable emotion. He said flatly, "Dumbledore told him about them. Just before you two left to try to collect Slytherin's locket."  
  
" _He would never,_ " Harry snarled, straining against the magical bonds that held him to his chair. But then how would Malfoy know? Harry hadn't told anyone but Ron and Hermione about the locket. He'd refused McGonagall; he'd refused the Ministry of Magic, even. How would Malfoy have found out where they'd gone, unless Dumbledore really had...  
  
"Why did you trust him?" he muttered, as if Dumbledore could still hear him. "Why tell _him_ about the horcruxes?"  
  
Surprisingly, Draco seemed just as infuriated as Harry had moments before. It was his turn to spit angrily at the other boy, "You have _no idea_ what Snape went through or just how much he gave up for Dumbledore. And you'll never be able to understand." He gripped his wand threateningly and seemed barely able to keep from striking out at the Gryffindor. "You biased piece of shit. You'll never see what he did for _you_. What he did for me. For all of us."  
  
Harry was speechless. And not because of a spell this time. Where had this come from? He refused to accept it and growled, "Oh, yes, he did loads for me. Like when he murdered my mentor and threw him off the astronomy tower!"  
  
"He only did what he promised to do! You weren't there - you couldn't understand how much it hurt-" Malfoy stopped and bit down hard on his lower lip.  
  
But Harry remembered. Remembered how Dumbledore had pleaded. He said flatly, "You're wrong. Dumbledore _begged_ Snape. Begged him to spare his life."  
  
Draco looked at him like he was an idiot. "Dumbledore beg for his life? I didn't like the old man, but even I know he'd never do that. I don't know where you heard about it from, but he was begging Snape to _kill_ him."  
  
"No. No, that wasn't how it happened," Harry practically shouted at the other boy. It had been over ten months, but the pain and the betrayal hadn't faded at all. He'd been begging Snape. _Begging just like he begged you_ , a cool voice in his mind reminded him. _Just like he begged you to kill him._  
  
His eyes filled with painfully burning tears and Harry had to stare up at the ceiling to stop them from overflowing. He whispered what he'd always half-known, "He was dying."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Harry bit his teeth together so hard that it hurt. He wanted to hit something. Or himself. "It was my fault - because he drank that potion..."  
  
Draco looked at the Gryffindor with something like... well, it couldn't have been pity. Perhaps understanding - as if he could understand what it meant to have your mentor die for you. He explained rationally, "This is only what Snape told me. Even if he had found an antidote for whatever it was Dumbledore drank, the old man was still dying. That curse in his wand hand. The one that made it all black and shrivelled. Well, it was spreading, Potter. Whether that night or another weeks or months from it, Dumbledore was going to die."  
  
Harry didn't want to hear these rational explanations from _Malfoy_ of all people and he spat wretchedly, "Why didn't you just kill him, then? When you had the chance."  
  
"Well, obviously I didn't know all this at the time, genius," he scoffed and turned away to address the wall. "Honestly, this can't be worth it. I should've just gone to get the bloody horcrux on my own."  
  
Still bound to his chair, Harry was shaking his head. "I don't believe this. I won't believe any of it." He glared at Malfoy a bit madly and told the blond, "You might as well put me back where you found me, because I won't go with you. This is just one of Voldemort's traps."  
  
Malfoy was giving him the idiot look again. He said incredulously, "Hello, Potter? Is there _anything_ in that scarred head of yours? If this was a trap for Voldemort to get you, why on Salazar's green earth would I take you traipsing out and about to get the horcrux? Voldemort would be here and you'd already be dead, if that were the case. The fact that you are alive means that this is quite patently _not_ one of moldy Voldie's plans."  
  
"Aren't you being a bit light-hearted about your _master_?" Harry sneered at the Death Eater.  
  
"Well, as I see it, Snape is off getting tortured and murdered as we speak and I'll be next up on the menu, so I'm not too worried about titles at the moment."  
  
"But...your family..." Harry broke off, embarrassed to allow Malfoy some human feeling, but then finished what he was saying, "I thought you were trying to protect your family."  
  
Draco's lips twisted into something painful and he gripped his left arm, where the Dark Mark was burning under his shirt. "Yes, and I would still be playing Voldie's lapdog if there were anything left to protect. But they are all long gone, Potter. Glad to see that you've kept up on current affairs."  
  
He smiled bitterly. "It was just me and Snape." His eyes hardened on Harry. "And now it's just me and you."  
  
Harry tore his eyes away and stared at his lap. He wished Hermione and Ron were with him. Not that they'd be any help, the way they were now. He tried to get off the subject of Dumbledore and back onto what was truly important: the horcrux. He said softly, "So what do you know about the horcrux?"  
  
Malfoy struggled for a moment, but forced himself under control as well. He replied dully, "It's an item of Ravenclaw's. An ancient model of the solar system." The blond seemed to warm for a moment as he amended, "Well, not the solar system, actually, since we were still using a geocentric model back then. It shows the Ptolemaic system, rather, with the earth at the center. Arranged around the Earth are her Moon, Mercury, Venus, the Sun, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn and the fixed stars." He shrugged and said, "If the descriptions that we've found of the artefact are accurate, that is."  
  
The description didn't mean a lot to Harry, but he did remember something from his school days about how it used to be believed that the earth was the center of the universe, not the sun. The important thing wasn't what the bloody thing looked like, though, rather where it was and how to destroy it. "Are you sure that it's the horcrux?"  
  
"Quite so. Snape and I spent the last several months researching it."  
  
Harry had to ask, "Why?"  
  
Malfoy shrugged and there was a hint of a mocking gleam in his eye as he explained, "Snape figured that you and your little gang would be able to sort out the other horcruxes well enough, since Dumbledore practically handed them to you. But he thought this last one would be beyond your feeble powers of deduction and so took it upon himself - and me, really - to find it for you."  
  
"And you know where it is?"  
  
The blond boy had been relaxing slightly into the conversation but now he looked uncomfortable again. He hedged around his answer. "Well, yes. In a manner of speaking."  
  
Harry glared at the other boy and said coldly, "What does that mean?"  
  
Draco glared back at him unhappily and admitted, "Well, we don't have a precise location, but we know what building it is located in. Or possibly the grounds around the building."  
  
Giving the young Death Eater a withering look, Harry asked flatly, "Just how big is this building?"  
  
"Erm..."  
  
"Not a good answer, Malfoy."  
  
"Well... It's an orphanage."  
  
Harry started. An orphanage? Could it be the one he had visited with Dumbledore, in the pensieve? But where else would it be? All the horcruxes were located in places where something significant had happened to Tom Riddle. What could be more significant than first discovering that he was a wizard, that he was _special_? He looking measuringly at Malfoy for a moment and then told him, "I think I know where it might be." He thought he could still remember the path that he and Dumbledore had taken, up to the small room where Tom had stayed.  
  
Sliding his wand between his fingers, Draco stared critically at the dark-haired boy. "Do you now? Well, I suppose there's no sense in prolonging this partnership then. Let's get the damned horcrux." He waited for a moment, expecting the other boy to say something. When Harry just nodded grimly, he couldn't help asking, "That's it? No more accusations of this being a trap? Not even a request for your Muggle-loving cronies?"  
  
Where his arms were tied behind his back, Harry's fingers twitched angrily but he spoke with flat detachment. "I think we established the likelihood of this being a trap already. And Ron and Hermione... would be little help." His breath caught slightly for a moment. "They aren't who they once were."  
  
Draco chose to ignore the annoyingly cryptic statement and instead waved his wand at Harry, releasing the bonds that held the him. Harry rubbed his aching wrists and asked simply, "My wand?" Draco drew it from his pocket and tossed it back to its owner.  
  
"We should be able to apparate there," Draco explained briskly. "There oughtn't be any anti-apparition wards, since it is a Muggle area, but just in case, we're going to aim for a nearby shop. The shop name is Madame Tuffertop's Tea Shop and it's abandoned. That's our destination."  
  
Harry looked down at his well-worn wand. He didn't want to have to tell Malfoy that he wasn't sure he could apparate to an unknown location. It was of course part of the apparition test, but he hadn't taken the test, had he? He swallowed uncomfortably and Malfoy seemed to notice. Once again, the Death Eater didn't choose to embarrass him, but explained in a flat tone, "All you have to do is think of the location. Madame Tuffertop's Tea Shop in London. Just repeat it to yourself and the magic should do the rest for you."  
  
Harry felt a distinctly uncomfortable gratitude and quickly turned on the spot and apparated. _MadameTuffertop'sTeaShopMadameTuffertop'sTeaShopMadameTuffertop's_ \- He landed on a hard surface and stumbled. Prying his eyes open, he found himself inside of what looked very much like an abandoned shop. The air was thick with dust and the room was echoingly empty. Shafts of afternoon light filtered through the boarded-over windows. A moment later, Draco apparated in next to him.  
  
The blond went into a coughing fit, after sucking in a lungful of dust, and when it finally subsided, he looked around himself in distaste. Muttering to himself, "Disgusting," he walked past Harry and wrenched the front door open. Peering around the frame cautiously, he apparently didn't see any cause to worry, as he gestured for Harry to follow him. They stepped out into a mostly empty road and headed away from the little muggle shop, barely glancing behind themselves.  
  
There was no conversation between the two boys as they walked along the side of the lonely road. Both were tense and jumpy, constantly looking around at some real or imagined sound. And they looked at each other mistrustfully even more constantly. The tension between them grew as each held on tightly to his own wand and just before they might have drawn those wands on each other, a bleak grey building loomed into view. The orphanage.  
  
They stopped short of it, crouching amongst the hedges in the garden. Harry asked softly, "So how do we get in unnoticed?"  
  
Draco pointed out, "You're the one who supposedly knows where we are going. Will we be noticed wherever that is?"  
  
"Yes," Harry said firmly, "We'll have to pass through the main entrance and several main halls and stairways."  
  
The blond thought about it for a while and Harry was happy to let him. Figuring out these aspects of the plan had always been Hermione's job. After Hermione had been put out of service, it had fallen to Ron - which might explain why their last mission had been gone so horrifically awry. Clever spells were neither boy's strong point.  
  
"Invisibility probably won't be much use," Draco spoke suddenly, interrupting Harry's reverie. "There's too much chance that we would bump into someone and cause a commotion."  
  
"But do we care if we cause a commotion?" Harry asked seriously. "Couldn't we just run in there, grab the thing and run out? They'd probably just think it some prank."  
  
But Draco was shaking his head. "If we were absolutely certain on where the horcrux was, that might be an option. But what if we're wrong? We won't be able to search effectively if we're being chased and set upon." Harry thought he should be mad for some reason, but rather found himself listening to the Malfoy's cool logic. "We need stealth, not speed."  
  
Harry shrugged, since his only ideas had been limited to dashing in wildly or summoning his old invisibility cloak. Stealth was not often his forte. Malfoy continued to think about the problem, murmuring to himself. Harry half-listened to the oddly familiar voice going through ideas and then crossing them off. If this worked, he realized, he would have the last horcrux. After he destroyed it, the only thing left would be Voldemort himself. Was the dark lord getting any weaker as the pieces of his soul were destroyed? Had Harry gotten stronger since the last time they had fought, in the Department of Mysteries? _Would he be able to beat him?_  
  
Draco's mumbles had stopped. He said to Harry, "We'll just have to weave a Confundus charm around ourselves. After all, we don't look that old. We'll just have to make the Muggles believe that we are part of the orphanage."  
  
"Can you do that?" Harry asked frankly, before catching himself. He had no idea how to do such a thing.  
  
Malfoy lips curled up into his first real smirk and he said, "Yes." He looked down at his pale wand and amended, "I think."  
  
He pointed the wand at himself first and muttered an unfamiliar spell. Harry watched him critically. The blond didn't appear any different to him. But how should he know what the spell ought to do? Malfoy was turning the wand on him now and Harry stared straight into those unreadable grey eyes as the magic hit him.  
  
He wriggled his fingers and toes. He was still alive. And functioning. Perhaps Malfoy really wasn't trying to kill him. Now the only question was whether the spell would do what Malfoy had hoped. Taking deep breaths almost in sync, the two boys looked at each and then headed up to the dreary building in front of them.  
  
They walked up to the front door and Harry tried to recall the exact path he and Dumbledore had taken. Of course he hadn't been paying much attention at the time - he'd never imagined that he would have to come to this place in real life. But imagining the halls and corridors was helping keep him from hyperventilation. God, he hoped this worked.  
  
Malfoy reached his thin hand out and wrapped it around the front door's handle. He pulled. It didn't move. Frowning briefly, the blond glanced at Harry and then decisively rapped his white knuckles smartly on the door. Nothing happened for several moments, but then the heavy black door slid back a few scant inches. A scared little white face peered around and appeared to jump when it saw the two teenaged boys.  
  
"What are you two doing _out_?" the small boy hissed nervously, pulling the door open just enough for them to squeeze through it. "Oh, we're all going to be in trouble now. We're supposed to be at dinner, you know!" Draco and Harry looked at each other with the briefest shared smile. Dinner time. That meant everyone else should be in the dining hall and the two wizards should be undisturbed in their search.  
  
Harry leaned over the orphan boy and whispered, "Don't worry. Just say you got sick and couldn't make it to dinner." He flicked his wand behind his back and felt a weight fall into his left hand.  
  
Draco plucked it from his fingers and then pushed the huge sandwich into the boy's bony hands. "Here," he said in a surprisingly soft voice, "Eat it up in your room before anyone notices."  
  
Staring at them for a moment with huge eyes, the boy quickly nodded and ran silently away. One obstacle was gone. Harry said quietly, "Spell's working."  
  
Draco nodded. "Let's go."  
  
Harry led the way, moving cautiously through half-remembered halls and narrow staircases. After only one close encounter, when the two boys had to duck into a closet to avoid a matron, they arrived at what Harry sincerely hoped was the right room. "This," he whispered unsurely, "should be the room where Tom Riddle stayed."  
  
The death eater seemed to recognize the name and nodded again. Harry wondered if Snape had filled the boy in on Voldemort's history or if Malfoy had already known about it. He was never sure how widely Voldemort was known to be Tom Riddle.  
  
Trying to stop his mind from these tangents, Harry brought himself fully into the present. He had no idea what they would find behind the door but he had no choice but to turn the handle and push it open. It was almost a disappointment when the door opened with no resistance and revealed a dusty, unused room. There was a gaunt metal bedframe, with no mattress or bedding on it, against one wall. At the opposite side of the room was a wardrobe, which Harry still recognized, fifty years later, as the one that Dumbledore had enchanted. Everything was covered in dust and Harry hazarded, "I guess they don't use this room any longer."  
  
"No," Malfoy agreed, immediately casting a silencing spell on the room, just in case, "I imagine they don't. Whatever protections there might be on the horcrux probably make this a distinctly uncomfortable room to stay in." He turned to Harry. "Where do you think it is?"  
  
Harry didn't hesitate to nod towards the wardrobe. "That's where he kept all his _collection_. The things he stole from other children at the orphanage."  
  
Draco moved towards the piece of furniture consideringly. He reached out and let his fingers graze the wood with an impossibly brief touch, but nothing popped out or went through him. Emboldened, he actually grasped the knob next and tried to pull it open. The wardrobe's doors wouldn't budge. He gave an interested hum and said, "I think you might be on to something, Potter." He ran his fingers over the wardrobe curiously and continued, "I would guess that no one's been able to open this wardrobe for years. Probably twenty years or more. "  
  
"Wouldn't they just try to smash it then? Or move it?" Harry asked.  
  
Draco gave another little half-smirk and suggested lightly, "Try it for me, won't you?"  
  
After that, Harry really wanted to _not_ try it, but he stepped up to the wardrobe. He glanced around and found an old broken pencil on the floor. He picked it up and transfigured it into a heavy sledgehammer, with which he wasted no time. He swung it around at the flimsy-looking wardrobe and when it struck with a heavy _thud_ , it sent him reeling backwards. There was not a dent on the thin wood, though.  
  
"I think that's enough demonstration. Though I'd love to see you try to move it as well, we're wasting time." He resumed his study of the ancient wardrobe. "We have to find a way in."  
  
"Do you think there's a password?"  
  
Malfoy was giving him that idiot look once again. Harry shut his mouth tightly. From behind the blond, he pointed his wand at the wardrobe and silently cast _alohomora_. Nothing happened. He stealthily slid his wand back into his pocket and waited for Malfoy to think of something.  
  
The death eater walked around the wardrobe thoughtfully, flicking his wand at it from time to time and setting off little sparks. As he worked, he goaded Harry with, "How ever did you manage to get all the other horcruxes?"  
  
"Well," Harry said retrospectively, "the first was an accident. I was twelve at the time. The second, Dumbledore took care of. The third and fourth, Hermione was around for. And the fifth... well, it was a great bloody snake. There weren't too many puzzles to solve there."  
  
Malfoy stopped what he was doing to stare at Harry with something that made his previous 'you're-an-idiot' looks seem positively warm and fuzzy. "That was a rhetorical question, you know." He turned back toward the wardrobe and muttered as he waved his wand, "And you're going to save the world. Priceless. Bloody priceless." But then something gave a loud cracking sound and Malfoy's tone became brisk again. "I think that may have done it."  
  
Harry stepped closer and they both reached out to yank the wardrobe's doors open. This time they gave way with surprising ease. Flung back, they revealed an innocuous-looking model of the solar system, which was silently spinning and rotating, still obviously buzzing with magic. Harry reached out to grab the fragile construction but Malfoy pulled him away with a sharp, " _Wait_." The blond was pointing his wand at the little model now and as he started waving his wand around again, he ground out, "I hardly imagine that old Voldie would have left it with so little protection. I'd guess that if you were to touch it, something decidedly unpleasant would happen."  
  
"Oh. Right." Harry kept his hands to himself after that. He watched as once again Malfoy did mysterious things with his wand. Why did Malfoy know how to do this stuff when Harry didn't? Had he missed some class on magical code-breaking or something? He noticed the other boy frowning and asked quickly, "What is it? Did you figure it out?"  
  
Waving Harry off distractedly, Malfoy continued to wave his wand around for several seconds. He stopped and looked down at his wand thoughtfully. Then he slipped it into his pocket and turned to Harry. "This is the last horcrux, right?"  
  
Harry was puzzled but nodded. "Yes."  
  
"After this, you'll go beat Voldie?"  
  
"Well, that's the plan."  
  
"Good," Malfoy said and then took a deep breath. "Make sure you kill him proper this time."  
  
And then he reached out and picked up the spinning model by its base. As soon as his fingers touched the gold, he fell screaming to the ground, the model rolling away across the room. An instant later, Harry felt an incredible pain of his own, as Voldemort apparated into the room and seized the screaming blond. Apparently he had noticed his horcruxes being targeted. Harry stared wide-eyed for a moment and then dove for the last horcrux, ducking down to snatch it from the ground. He spun on his heel, already falling, and apparated away.


	4. In Which A Bath Is Drawn And Company Comes

**Chapter Four**  
_In Which A Bath Is Drawn And Company Comes_

  
  
"I ARRIVED BACK AT THE house where we were staying," Harry explained, staring down at the grass beneath his legs. He couldn't bring himself to look over at the grown Malfoy sitting slightly downhill. He still remembered how he'd felt: apparating back into the Unplottable house, he'd landed awkwardly sprawled across the floor and lost his grip on the golden model. It had clattered away from him and landed next to a pair of sensible brown shoes. He had looked up to see Hermione watching him with that curious blank look he had learned to hate and she'd asked him kindly as she bent to pick up the model, "Oh--Harry, right? What's this?"  
  
The adult Harry, sitting in the sun, closed his eyes. Blackness filled his vision and for a moment he was afraid to open his eyes again, but when he did, he saw the reassuring green hills and the sunlit sky. He continued his story, "We already knew a way to suck all the magic from an object." Malfoy's brow twitched, but Harry wasn't looking at him. "Hermione had researched it before, back when we got our first horcrux. We got some help from Mr Weasley--he used to work in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office, you know. With what he taught us, Hermione was able to come up with a ritual to remove any magic from the horcruxes, including the bits that bound Voldemort's soul to them. Without it, the soul would just waft off to...well, wherever souls ought to go."  
  
He felt as though Malfoy was waiting for something more and so he added awkwardly, "We performed the ritual, Hermione and I. On the last horcrux."  
  
The blond nodded and stared out at the hills opposite them. From this angle, they could see the wide lines carved into the hilltop, revealing the white chalk below the grass, but not what pattern they made. After a couple of moments, Draco said quietly, "So you removed all the magic and the model was no longer a horcrux. Just a piece of metal."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Draco thought about that for a moment, then asked curiously, "What'd you do with it afterwards?"  
  
Harry started. He hadn't thought about it in years. He explained lamely, "Uh, it's in a trunk somewhere."  
  
"'It's _in a trunk_ somewhere?'" Draco repeated disbelievingly, turning around to stare up at Harry. The dark-haired man stared back at him blankly and nodded. " _You..._ " Draco breathed wondrously, "You put one of the most valuable artefacts of our society in _a trunk somewhere_?"  
  
"Oh." Harry realised with embarrassed shock that his face was flushing, and felt as awkward as he ever had as a teenager. "Well, it doesn't even move anymore. It's just a broken model."  
  
"Just a broken model that was owned, and possibly even created, by _Rowena Ravenclaw_!"  
  
Harry scowled, wishing his face weren't as red as he knew it was, and said shortly, "Fine. What do you say I should do with it then?"  
  
Draco shrugged, his shock slowly receding. "Sell it. That's what I'd probably do. But since you were a Gryffindor and all, you might want to donate it to some worthy institute, like the Museum of Magic or even Hogwarts."  
  
Harry held the question in as long as he could, but he had to ask: "There's a Museum of Magic? Where?"  
  
This made Draco smile again, which was at least less embarrassing to Harry than the blond's earlier incredulity. "You really must get out more, Potter," he said, and then told him in a very proper voice, "The Museum of Magic is located, of course, in the city of London. There is an entrance to it in Diagon Alley, for the most inconspicuous arrival, but otherwise it may be found through the Floo network, through purpose-built portkeys--almost solely used for tour groups--or by simply visiting the physical building, which appears as a storage facility near the Muggle British Museum."  
  
Unable to completely mask his curiosity, Harry asked the other man, "Just what do they have at a Museum of Magic?"  
  
"Oh, you know. Wands of famous witches and wizards. Models. Dioramas. Artefacts of historical value or theoretical significance. And a gift shop."  
  
They lapsed back into silence. Draco didn't seem to want to offer much more detail about the museum and Harry let his imagination run wild for several minutes. But inevitably, his thoughts returned to their earlier conversation. He had told Draco what had happened to him after they'd parted ways. Now he felt as if he had to ask the other man about his own story. He shifted uncomfortably and thought resentfully about how he had got stuck with the only man could make him feel like an fumbling teenager again. His voice awkward, he asked unsurely, "So what happened to you after I left?"  
  
There was no immediate answer and Harry watched the narrow back in front of him. Draco shifted slightly and said lightly, without turning around, "You don't really want to know, do you?"  
  
Harry thought about it. He really didn't want to know what else he was responsible for, how much more he could be blamed for. He didn't want to owe Malfoy any more than he already did. He agreed, "No, I don't."  
  
The silence seeped in between them once again. Harry looked at the forgotten cheese in his hand. He wasn't hungry any longer. He asked dimly, "Want some cheese?" But there was no response from the blond. Harry wished for a moment that he could see the other man's face, but then remembered himself. Instead he flopped back onto the grass, stretching his lean body upon the warm ground.  
  
Malfoy stayed perfectly still from what Harry could see of him. The former Gryffindor sighed in silent annoyance. He closed his green eyes and settled in for a good summer afternoon's dozing, as long as Malfoy was just going to sit there.  
  
He must have slipped into sleep because Malfoy's voice startled him when it suddenly chimed in, "I still need a bath."  
  
Harry's eyes unstuck reluctantly and he looked up at the sky. The sun had moved. It was still afternoon, but some indeterminate time later. Harry squinted at the blond head still facing away from him and mumbled, "What?"  
  
"A bath, Potter. Even you must be familiar with them."  
  
Harry noticed that more of that old bite had returned to Malfoy's voice and thought once again that discussing the past probably hadn't been a good idea. He sat up, pain throbbing through his head again with the motion. As soon as the flash of pain subsided, he ground out, "Fine. We'll head back to my place then." He took a quick glance about them and asked, "You're giving up on looking for your wand?"  
  
"We're not going to find it here," Draco said surely.  
  
Not caring enough to argue the point, Harry pushed himself up and started stumbling down the hill back toward the road. Once again, he left it up to Draco to follow behind him. And once again, the blond accepted this without complaint, strolling easily in Harry's wake. At least he didn't sing this time.  
  
They made it back to the village and took a slightly more out-of-the-way path back to the little house, since Harry didn't want to create any more opportunities for his neighbours to gossip. As far they were concerned, he was happy to let them all assume that Malfoy was gone and let him get back to his usual isolated lifestyle. They managed to avoid running into anyone else on the unmade lanes and arrived at Harry's home from the opposite way as they had left it.  
  
Harry opened the front door and stepped inside, toeing his dusty shoes off as he walked. He left his shoes on the floor and went down the hall to the bathroom and propped the door open for Malfoy. Then he went into his own room and left the other man to his own devices.  
  
Draco stood outside the front door and shook his head in silent bemusement. He stepped over the threshhold and bent down to take off his own shoes, leaving them neatly lined up, in contrast to Harry's trainers strewn across the hallway. Stepping over the offending shoes, he walked down the hall to the door that Harry had opened. It was opposite the small room he had stayed in the night before and turned out to be an incredibly small and plain Muggle bathroom. Draco frowned as he looked at the toilet right next to the bath--who would want to bathe, all in an effort to clean themselves, right next to a sodding toilet? But seeing the toilet reminded him that he hadn't used the facilities for an indecent period of time and so, with a heartfelt sigh, he resigned himself to the situation.  
  
After he relieved himself, he turned to the bath, which was--at the least--thankfully clean. The white porcelain was sparkling and looked as if it had been scrubbed that very morning. Perhaps Potter had some sort of charm to keep it clean, Draco thought, as he turned one of the taps on and let water spill into the tub. He turned around the narrow space and sighed again, then stripped his dirty clothes off and folded them in a neat but dusty pile on the farthest part of the counter.  
  
Glancing back at the tub showed that a couple inches of clear water had collected and he reached into the water experimentally, then yelped. Jerking his hand out of the icy cold bath water, he quickly spun around in search of a bath-towel. As soon as he found one, he slung it around his bony hips and marched out of the bathroom and into Potter's room. The other man was in the process of changing his shirt and turned around furiously when he heard Draco push open the door.  
  
" _What?_ " he asked as he pulled his shirt over his head.  
  
Draco shrugged and said, "There's something wrong with your bath."  
  
Frowning darkly, Harry shoved past the blond and into the bathroom. He looked at the bath but everything seemed perfectly in order to him. It was still sparkling clean, the water was clear and flowing; what was Malfoy's problem? He looked to the nearly naked man for explanation, and Draco said in exaggerated patient voice, "The water's like ice, Potter." He waved a hand toward the tub, inviting Harry to try it for himself. "Who's going to want to bathe in that? I only put my hand in, and I think my bollocks fell off."  
  
"I'm not sure that I'd feel bad about that. I might be doing the world a favour." Harry saw the blond glaring at him and said, "Look, it's a Muggle house. The water won't just come out perfect and hot of its own accord. You've got to turn on the hot water tap." And then he walked back out the door and into his room to finish changing.  
  
From behind him he heard the screech of a tap being turned sharply and Malfoy called out, "Which one is the-- _AUUGGHHH! BUGGER!_ " Harry couldn't help smiling. But before he got far, Malfoy had come haranguing after him again, still wearing nothing more than Harry's towel. "Wait up, Potter," the blond said suspiciously, "doesn't that mean, then, that the water will go cold after a time?"  
  
"Well, yes," Harry said simply, as if he were speaking to someone sub-normal, "that's what water does in its natural state."  
  
Draco raised an eyebrow and shot back in a similar tone, "And you haven't ever bothered to charm the tub?"  
  
Harry always had hated to admit that he knew fewer spells than Malfoy and so instead of admitting that he didn't know how, he flatly said, "No, I haven't."  
  
His scornful expression easing, Draco pushed Harry towards the bathroom again, saying, "Well, no time like the present. The incantation is a simple ' _fervefacio_ ' and the motion is a nice counterclockwise swirl." Harry had little choice, since the blond had pushed him right in front of the filling bathtub and so, with a sigh, he pulled out his wand and cast the spell on the water, which immediately began steaming invitingly. Draco applauded him. "That's lovely. Now I'll just need those clothes cleaned and we'll be grand."  
  
Harry was about to exclaim again but he was beginning to suspect that that was precisely what the blond wanted. So instead he picked up the pile of neatly folded clothes without a word and walked out of the bathroom. He walked into the kitchen and threw the clothes into the washing machine there, but didn't bother to start the load. If Malfoy wanted his clothes cleaned, he would have to do it himself.  
  
Leaning against the counter, Harry let his head fall back, stretching his tense neck muscles. Impossible though it seemed, today was shaping up to be even more bizarre than the previous day. He didn't understand Malfoy--within just the span of a couple of hours, he'd gone from hating the man to laughing at him to fearing him to pitying him. And all the way back again. Was it his fault, since he never interacted with people? Or was it Malfoy's fault, for being certifiably insane?  
  
Either way, Harry wouldn't let the other man intrude on his life any further than he already had. Harry would keep to his regular schedule. Today was Wednesday, and that meant hoovering and dusting. Harry moved to the closet and pulled out his old Muggle hoover, feeling normalcy settle back around him as he did so. Setting the hoover on the carpet in the sitting room, he extended the cord to its full length and plugged it into the outlet in the wall. He flicked the power switch, and the ornery old machine roared into life.  
  
Letting his mind go blank and fill with the deafening white noise of the hoover, Harry pushed the machine mechanically about the room, watching lines appear and disappear in the carpet's pile. He didn't notice when Malfoy came tripping into the room, dripping wet this time but once again, thankfully, with a towel about him. The ex-Death Eater looked around wildly and waved his hands at the offending machine, screeching, " _Silencio!_ " Of course it did nothing to the hoover, but it did catch Harry's attention and he switched off the power as he looked questioningly at the blond. "What is it now?"  
  
Draco was looking at him disbelievingly--that same old 'you're an idiot' look. "I thought," he said distinctly, "that we were under attack of some sort. Just what do you think you are doing out here?"  
  
Harry's brows lowered over his stormy green eyes and he said defensively, " _I_ think that _I_ am cleaning _my_ house, thank you. Are you done with your precious bath then? Because I'd just as soon have you out of my way till I finish hoovering all the rooms."  
  
Without a word but raising his hands helplessly, as if to say, "I'm going, I'm going," the blond retreated back to the bathroom and his toasty, charmed bath. Harry flipped his hoover back on and continued in his path across the sitting room. When he had finished there, he lugged the old machine to his bedroom to clean the rug there, and then onto Malfoy's room--no, onto _his_ extra room, he reminded himself--to do the same. When he was finished, he carefully carried the hoover back into the kitchen and, after checking its bag, replaced it in the closet.  
  
He ducked under the kitchen sink to pull out a bottle of furniture polish and dusting rag, but as he set them on the counter, he noticed the dishes left in the sink. They must have been from his breakfast the previous day--he'd meant to do them after returning from his drive, but of course that plan had gone out the window when he'd got into a car accident with Draco Malfoy. Sighing as he looked at the now crusty remains on the plates, he flipped up the tap and let water start pouring over them. He thought for one happy, resentful moment that using the water might make Malfoy's bathwater run cold, but then remembered that he'd already charmed the tub for the git, even if it wasn't already full. Which it probably was. _Damn it._  
  
Instead it was Harry's hands that were plunged into the cold water and he grabbed an abrasive scrubber to start working away at the dried remains of kedgeree on the top plate. He had branched away from his Aunt Petunia's utilitarian cooking once he'd started living on his own, but at times like this he could appreciate the simplicity of the toast she'd always given him. Not much clean-up to do with toast, after all.  
  
As Harry scrubbed away at the plates mindlessly, he couldn't help his thoughts turning back to Malfoy. If they were really giving up on finding the other man's wand, could he just send the blond back to the Manor? Or should he just get a taxi cab to send him to Diagon Alley or some place where he could get a new wand? He hadn't suggested it first, since he knew how much a wizard's wand meant. He couldn't imagine replacing his own. But there was no other choice for Malfoy now.  
  
He absently wondered which would be cheaper. _If only I had my car..._ , he thought dreamily. Then he could just get rid of Malfoy himself. That made him realise that he needed to find out what had happened to his car. After all, several tonnes of metal didn't just disappear--at least, not in the Muggle world they didn't. He remembered the doctor telling him that the wreck had been found by the old widow at the grocery. Perhaps he ought to stop by and see who she had called...  
  
His wandering thoughts were interrupted by the pressure of a hand at his back. Rolling his eyes in annoyance, Harry flipped off the water and turned around, exclaiming, "What _now_ , Malfoy? I swear--"  
  
But whatever he might have sworn was forgotten when he saw not the half-naked blond man behind him but rather a shocked looking Ginny Weasley. Oh, _bugger_. The redhead was staring at him with wide, confused eyes and explained, "The front door was open and you didn't answer when I called you. You were someplace else entirely." She couldn't seem to help glancing around the room. Harry understood why when she next asked, "Why would you think I was a Malfoy?"  
  
Harry had to close his eyes against her. He still couldn't look at her without remembering. He asked tiredly, "Why are you here, Ginny?"  
  
She held up a parcel and said, "Mum wanted me to give you these. She worries about you. We all do." It was the same thing, every time she came. Harry knew that next she would try to convince him to come visit and, sure enough, moments later it came: "She'd really love to see you. So would Dad, of course, and even the twins still ask about you and tell your stories in their store. Business has been really good." She bit her lip and hazarded, "I'm sure Ron would appreciate it, too, if..."  
  
"If he still could," Harry filled in for her bitterly. "Ron's gone, Ginny."  
  
Ginny was shaking her head, though, as she always did. They'd had this argument so many times over the years that Harry could practically repeat his part of it in his sleep. When she'd first started coming, she had been so fierce about it all, as if needing to hear Harry tell her that Ron wasn't coming back, just so that she could deny it. These days, she only quietly persisted that there was some small piece of Ron still in the empty body that looked like him.  
  
Harry didn't want to play the game today and he skipped ahead brutally, hurting himself as much as her. "He is. No one has ever come back from being Kissed, Gin. You know better than I; you're the one who's read every book on the subject. He's gone and it's my fault and I'll never visit your mum and dad." He looked at her square on and said finally, "And we'll never be together. Please, stop coming here."  
  
Even now, something in his chest burned when he said the words, though he'd said them dozens of times before. Ginny had grown into a beautiful, though tragic-looking, young woman. Her ginger hair was a dark auburn now and made her pale skin look even whiter. He knew that she spent most her time indoors, taking care of Ron and helping with her mother. Her eyes were dark holes in her thin face and she always looked as if she had just been crying or was just about to. And when he looked at her, he missed the happy, alive girl that he'd fallen in love with when he was sixteen. This wasn't her.  
  
He felt a moment of tenderness towards her and almost reached out to touch her, before remembering that his hands were wet. He told her softly, "Please, Gin. Just go on. Forget about me."  
  
She had to look away, the tears that were always threatening now overflowing her eyes, and laughed wretchedly, "But that's exactly why no one can. When you say it like that..." She looked back up at him pleadingly and said, "You _saved_ us all, Harry. You shouldn't have to be in exile for that."  
  
"What if I want to be?" he asked, the words rolling easily off his tongue. He felt tired. How many times would he have to repeat this conversation? He knew his next line. "I didn't save everyone, Ginny--"  
  
"Well, that's for damn sure," interrupted a new, wry voice and they spun around to see Malfoy lounging against the wall, in nothing but Harry's bath towel. He continued easily, directing his words toward Harry, "You left me to a nearly certain death without a moment's hesitation. Oh, and," he added, as an afterthought, "I'm really going to need some clothes sometime today."  
  
The two former Gryffindors were staring at him wordlessly and he exclaimed, "What? Was this a private conversation?"


	5. In Which There Is Nudity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Black sheep is a derogatory colloquialism in the English language meaning an outsider or one who is different in a way which others disapprove of. This can be someone who has been shunned by others, or one who has chosen to be an outsider, due to actions and aims that separate them from the rest of the people or 'flock.'"

**Chapter Five**  
_In Which There Is Nudity_

  
DRACO MALFOY WAS STANDING, DRIPPING, on the carpet of Harry's sitting room. He had Harry's fluffy yellow towel wrapped around his bony hips and water still clung to his white skin in shivering droplets. He pushed his clinging white hair away from his face and said, "I could hear you from the bath, is all, and it was quite distracting." He looked pointedly at Ginny, who was still stuck in shock, and then at Harry, who was watching the scene unfold miserably. "Where are my clothes, Potter?"  
  
Harry gestured toward the machine under the counter and explained in a muted voice, "I put them in the machine, but I haven't started the wash yet."  
  
Draco frowned and then turned to the young woman with a smile. He spoke lightly as he said, "You, my dear, seem to be delaying my laundry. Why don't you do like Wonder Boy told you and get lost?"  
  
This got a reaction from Ginny and she seemed to choke in disbelief for several moments, looking between Harry and Draco. "You--you can't just--he--" she babbled incoherently, unable to express her fury at Malfoy's gall or her anger at Harry's lack thereof. Then without another attempt at speech, she pulled her wand, spun on her heel, and apparated away with a loud, angry crack.  
  
"Great," Draco said, rubbing his hands together. "Now you can clean my clothes." Harry only shot him a deadly look and so he asked, but in a surprisingly serious voice, "Did I do something wrong?"  
  
His tone caused Harry to pause and think before he answered. "No," he said slowly, "you didn't."  
  
"Well, then?" Draco said, glancing meaningfully toward the washing machine.  
  
"Oh, fine, I'll start the damned laundry." He felt peevish and he glared at Draco, looking to find something wrong with him. His eyes stopped on the towel wrapped around Draco and he said in a spiteful tone, "I'll need to wash that, too. Now that it's been touching _you_."  
  
The blond shrugged and pulled the towel off in an easy move and threw it at Harry. It struck the unresponding man in the chest and then fell to the floor at his feet. Harry was too boggled by the sight of Draco Malfoy standing easily in his sitting room, completely nude. There wasn't enough cleaning in the world to make that right again.  
  
He forced his eyes onto that pale smirking face. He hadn't really wanted the towel back that badly. He'd just been spoiling for a fight. He asked disbelievingly, "What are you doing?"  
  
"What?" Draco asked in an innocent voice. He glanced down at his own wiry body and then began to smile. "Oh, please..." He had to pause here because his grin was getting out of control. " _Please_ don't tell me you're  _flustered_? Avert you're blushing eyes, Potter!" He burst out laughing and cried, "My god, weren't you on the quidditch team for something like six years?"  
  
"Five," Harry corrected him stiffly.  
  
"And you're embarrassed by seeing a naked man? And not even a bad specimen, if I say so myself."  
  
Harry felt the need to argue and he picked up the towel to avoid looking at Malfoy's...well, his body, "Of course I saw my teammates, but you're... You hate me. Or I hate you. I mean--it's just _different._ "  
  
The blond grinned and held his arms out expansively, revealing the faded Dark Mark on his forearm. "Well, then, spell my clothes clean and your problems will be solved!"  
  
"Oh, I _wish_ ," Harry muttered. But with one more glare in the other man's direction, he took the three steps to the laundry machine and threw the damp towel in on top of the other man's clothes. Tossing in a packet of detergent, he viciously wrenched on the machine's knob and it started up with a faint knocking noise. He turned back around and of course Malfoy was still standing there in his sitting room, legs shoulder-width apart and his arms now slung behind his head. He looked at Harry expectantly.  
  
One green eye twitching, Harry waved one hand in Draco's direction and said, "Put something on, won't you?"  
  
"My only clothes are in the wash."  
  
"Fine," Harry capitulated, his face screwed up in distaste, "Use something of mine, then. Anything's got to be better than..." He looked pointedly at the other man's wiry, white body.  
  
Malfoy spun on his heel, laughing, and Harry couldn't help seeing the flash of his white backside leaving the room. From down the hall, amid the sound of drawers being rifled through, the blond yelled back at him, "So what are we going to do now?"  
  
_We?_ Harry mouthed silently. He snapped back loudly, " _I_ am going to finish my cleaning."  
  
The blond man walked back into the sitting room, barefoot and now wearing one of Harry's worn pairs of jeans, like the one Harry himself was wearing, and buttoning up a plain white shirt. Harry frowned uncomfortably--somehow seeing Malfoy in his own clothes seemed more intimate than simply seeing the other man naked. But the blond started talking before he could formulate anything to say about that. "I meant what are we going to do about getting me 'the hell out of your life.' I believe that was the tune of it anyhow."  
  
Oh, right. Of course. Harry cleared his throat distractedly. "Well, you seem to have given up on finding your wand...?" He let his statement trail off into a question and the blond shrugged noncommittally.  
  
"Do you want me to send you to Diagon Alley, to get a new one?"  
  
Draco blinked in surprise and looked at the dark-haired man for a long moment, then dragged his grey eyes away to fiddle with the cuffs of his borrowed shirt. "No," he said in a final tone of voice, "that won't help anything."  
  
"I could pay for a taxi to take you somewhere, if it would get rid of you," Harry said, not maliciously but in a matter-of-fact tone.  
  
Malfoy raised his pale eyebrows in sceptical arches which clearly said, "Yes, we _could_ do that. But we're not going to." What he in fact said was, "Where's your car?"  
  
Harry scowled. "I believe," he said shortly, "that it was towed, as you should remember from last night. Why? You expect me to drive you back home?"  
  
A quick flash of canines and Harry realised Draco had smiled. The blond corrected him with a drawl, "Not quite. I deduced, however, that wherever your car is, my bike is likely to be nearby. If I could get that back, I'd happily ride off and ne'er return. Understand?"  
  
He did understand, but still frowned. "I suppose... Well, the only tow truck I know in the area is up in Cherhill. I would guess it must be there. But we couldn't possibly walk there."  
  
Rolling his eyes dramatically, Draco flung himself down on the squashy couch, crying out, "Merlin's beard, Potter! Are you not a wizard? You don't have to _walk_ anywhere."  
  
Harry felt oddly as if he ought to move into the sitting room to continue their... conversation? But instead he turned the tap water back on and picked up his dirty dish to begin scrubbing again, saying, "You're suggesting that I apparate there? And what--steal your bike back for you? If it's not already scrap metal."  
  
"No," the blond replied from the couch, rolling his fair head from one shoulder to the other. "I'm suggesting that you apparate the both of us there, you get your car back, I get my bike back, I'll tell you how to do any repairs you might need, and we both get to go home happy."  
  
Dark green eyes narrowed at the back of Malfoy's head, Harry scrubbed the dish in his hand with a fury, not realizing that it was long past clean. He said suspiciously, "You wouldn't want to do anything that would make me happy."  
  
This did get the blond to turn around to face Harry with a perplexed glare. "Potter, what _are_ you on about? I don't give a damn about you. I just want my bike back. If the way to get you to apparate me to it includes getting your car back as well, then who the hell cares? I'm certainly not going to cut off my nose to spite my face." He shook his head disbelievingly, his thin hair falling in his eyes. "Honestly, what do you think--that I'm going to turn you over to _Voldemort_ or something?"  
  
Harry jumped. It was the first time he'd heard the name spoken in years. "Well, no, obviously not," he muttered. He didn't know what more to say though, and so continued to wash his dishes in silence. The other man watched him for several long seconds but finally turned back away and settled into the couch with a little wiggle. Like he had earlier on the hills above A4, he fell into an unconcerned silence. He didn't seem to feel the same discomfort that Harry did whenever these silences stretched between them, without conversation or even insults.  
  
Gritting his teeth and trying to pretend that there was not in fact an intruder sitting casually on his couch, Harry finished the dishes. He arranged them in his metal drying rack, making sure to leave enough space to let them quickly dry. The bottle of furniture polish was still sitting on the counter, on the other side of the sink. He picked it up and, although it was contrary to his usual habit, walked straight to his bedroom with it. He looked around the room warily, half-expecting to see his belongings strewn about and obviously rifled through. But Malfoy had only been alone in the room for moments and the room looked untouched.  
  
Silently berating himself, Harry began to run his oiled cloth over the few wooden surfaces in the room. He repeated these moves in the next room as well, before moving back to the sitting room. With his back still resolutely pointed at Malfoy, he dropped to his knees and began to dust the TV stand. Finally he turned around to the coffee table that sat before the blond man, not looking up into those surely mocking grey eyes. But he could still see the the long legs in front of him, encased in his own jeans. He saw them shift, as Malfoy leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, drawling, "So...?"  
  
"So?" Harry continued to polish the table in broad circles.  
  
"So are we going to go?"  
  
Harry pressed the cap firmly back onto his bottle of oil. If they went, he could get rid of Malfoy and get his car back in one night. His life could go back to normal. "Yes," he told the blond, shooting him a narrow glance. "We are."  
  
  
  
  
AND SO IT WAS THAT Harry apparated across Wiltshire, one hand reluctantly clasped around Draco Malfoy's wiry arm. They landed in an empty field outside Cherhill and the blond man stumbled, gasping at the tingling feeling of Harry's magic surging through him. He straightened up and grinned. "Let's do it then."  
  
Harry glared at him resentfully and strode off through the golden late-afternoon light. Autumn could be felt approaching in the air, though the foliage was still green and fresh. From behind him, he heard Draco ask in a faintly amused tone, "Will the tow man even be there now? Or are we sneaking in, under cover of magic?"  
  
There was something faintly mocking in the last question and Harry ignored both the needling voice and its speaker. Honestly, even he wasn't sure if the shop would still be open. It was getting rather close to supper time. He began to walk faster, pulling his wand out and balancing it briefly on his hand while whispering, " _Point me._ " It spun about once before fixing firmly ahead and slightly to the left. He set off in the indicated direction and it was only a few minutes before a scrubby lot came into view on the edge of the small town. There were a few rusting husks of cars among the taller weeds and a small garage covered in ugly, peeling green paint.  
  
The two young men sauntered into the yard and Malfoy called out in a bright voice, "Hallo?"  
  
Harry hissed at him, "You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?"  
  
The blond looked at him in feigned surprise. "You aren't? Or are such escapades a daily thing for you?"  
  
Of course, they weren't. And there was a certain thrill about it all. It was almost similar in some way to his school days--sneaking about empty grounds, his wand gripped tightly in his pocket, caught between nerves and anticipation. But surely he wasn't enjoying it.  
  
An older man had stuck his grizzled head out of the garage. His eyes narrowed on them in distracted annoyance and he started out toward the two youths, wiping his oily hands on a rag that was already dyed nearly black with grime. Draco whispered in a laughing voice into Harry's ear, "Personally, I'd recommend a sleeping spell."  
  
The dark-haired man could do nothing more than glare, because the old mechanic was standing before them suspiciously now. "What can I do ye for?" he asked in a decidedly ungenerous tone.  
  
Harry said awkwardly, "I believe you may have picked up two wrecked vehicles yesterday: a BMW and a motorcycle. We've come to collect them."  
  
The old man eyed the plaster on Harry's forehead shrewdly and as he listened, his gaze passed over the bruises decorating both the tall young men. He grumbled in a reluctant tone, "I'll need some form of identification."  
  
Harry glanced at the blond wizard with a question in his raised brows and Draco gave a little shake with his head, his eyes laughing beneath his white blond hair. _Great_ , he thought sarcastically, not that he was really surprised that Malfoy didn't carry any Muggle ID on his person. Meanwhile, the mechanic had been rambling on, "...of course you won't be able to drive them off tonight, not in that condition."  
  
Harry bit his lip for a moment, then whipped out his wand and silently cast a sleep spell upon the old Muggle, who immediately began to blink heavily. He started to topple over backwards and Harry rushed forward to catch him before he fell. Lowering the now deeply asleep man to the ground, Harry glared at Malfoy as if the situation was the blond's fault. Of course, it sort of _was_.  
  
But Draco walked forward without waiting for Harry this time, letting himself into the garage. Closest to the door was an unfamiliar car, apparently the one which the old man had been tinkering with when they had arrived. In the next stall was the black BMW which he remembered racing against on the A4. Laid out on the floor was his motorbike--or what had once been his motorbike. It was twisted and torn and definitely missing a couple of key pieces. Harry's car wasn't doing all that much better; the driver's side had huge, ragged gashes marring it and the front corner was crumpled like a piece of old parchment.  
  
Harry stepped into the shadowy garage and made a gurgling sort of choking sound when he saw his BMW. Draco grinned again. "Shall we get to work?" The dark man nodded mutely and stepped up to his car, running his fingers over the raw metal revealed where great patches of paint that had been scraped off.  
  
Step by step, Draco walked the other wizard through the appropriate spells. They fixed the body of the car first, straightening out the bent metal and filling in the chipped paint. The broken wing mirror was reaffixed and its glass fixed with a simple _reparo_ spell. Tyres were reinflated and patched. They popped open the bonnet and leaned over the guts of the vintage car, their elbows balanced on the metal frame. The engine was not particularly damaged, to Draco's surprise, and they soon moved onto the motorbike that was sprawled on the concrete floor.  
  
The bike took more work, as its parts had not been protected within a relatively sturdy frame, as was the case with Harry's car. As Draco demonstrated wand movements and explained spells, Harry couldn't help being oddly impressed. As they worked, he asked, "Where did you learn all this?"  
  
Draco corrected his pronunciation on the last spell before answering, "Don't you read? It's not like there's much else for us rich, useless lads to do."  
  
But Harry didn't read. He hadn't actually been back to Flourish and Blotts since the summer before his sixth year. All he had were his old schoolbooks and they were all packed away in the trunk that he hadn't opened in five years. He used the spells he remembered. He'd never thought of learning new spells before Malfoy had come around, demanding that his bath be warmed and his bike be fixed.  
  
The blond laughed at the expression on the other man's face and said scoffingly, "I'll give you some old spell books. Elementary ones, of course. I don't need them obviously."  
  
Harry blinked in confusion, thrown off by the seemingly genuine offer. But of course Malfoy wouldn't give him any books. They wouldn't see each other after this night. He waited for the next instructions from the blond and they continued their repairs without any more unnecessary conversation.  
  
It was less than an hour later that they finished their repairs, but the sun was unmistakably setting by then. Harry glanced toward the yard where they had left the mechanic snoozing away in a bed of weeds. "Are you sure they'll work?" he asked with no little amount of doubt.  
  
"No," the blond shrugged, "but throw a silencing spell on them and try them out if you'd like."  
  
By now used to heeding the other man's instructions without bristling up defensively (in his early frustration, he had even offered Malfoy the use of his wand, but the blond had refused it in distaste), Harry cast a broad silencing spell on his vintage car before sliding familiarly behind the wheel. Thankfully the key had been left in the ignition or he might have had to ask Malfoy for a dodgy spell to hotwire a car, as well. The key was there, though, and the engine seemed to turn over without a problem, if the steady but silent vibration of the car was a reliable sign. He turned the ignition back off and stepped out of the car. Waving vaguely in Malfoy's direction, he offered, "Do you want to check your bike as well?"  
  
Draco grinned. "No need. I was much more careful when we were repairing it than with your car." As Harry spluttered predictably, he continued, "So are you just going to use a standard memory charm on the old man?"  
  
"Memory charm?"  
  
"Well, yes. Don't you think he'll notice us driving away in these supposedly wrecked cars which now, thanks to my spells, look brand new?" Draco asked with cool logic. Harry gnashed his teeth. Of course Malfoy was right, like usual, and of course his solution was the easiest, as usual. It had only been 24 hours and he could already say "as usual." This relationship had to end.  
  
Clenching his eyes shut, Harry let his head fall back, rucking up his own hair in frustration. "Fine," he agreed, "we'll use the memory charm. _Obliviate_ , wasn't it?" He still remembered when Lockhart had tried to use the same spell on Ron and himself in second year. Though he was the only one who remembered the story now.  
  
The two men walked back out into the yard and stood over the prone figure on the ground. Harry gestured toward Draco and the blond man rolled his eyes, then bent down to hoist the grizzled old man to his feet. Harry pulled his wand and took a deep breath, then quickly cast his spells one after another, " _Finite incantatem. Obliviate!_ " For half a moment, the watery blue eyes of the mechanic opened with confusion onto the man in front of him, but then they glazed over and his entire face went slack.  
  
Harry waited uncomfortably for the man to come back to his senses, hoping he hadn't permanently damaged someone as Lockhart had done to himself. One, two, three long seconds stretched out and then the familiar scoffing voice broke into the silence of the yard, "You do realise there's a time limit on this, right?"  
  
Harry jumped. "What? What are you talking about, Malfoy?"  
  
This time the look of surprise that Draco shot him wasn't feigned at all. "The spell," he said, quickly now, "after casting the charm, you have about twenty seconds to create the new memories, before they wake up!"  
  
Harry looked at him with panicked green eyes, nearly yelping, "How the hell do I do that?"  
  
"Just make up a story and feed it to him!"  
  
Harry turned his attention back to the dazed man and stared at him wordlessly. How many seconds had already passed? "Um..." he started uselessly, stumbling over what to say, "the car and motorbike that you towed yesterday weren't in as bad condition as thought. You just fixed them and now their owners have come to collect them. You want to bill them and then...er...go home and sleep. You're very tired."  
  
"Suggestions for the future won't work," Draco hissed at him, from where he still stood behind the old man, holding him up with obvious distaste. "Just leave off!"  
  
Harry wanted to snap something back, though he didn't know what, and at that moment, the mechanic blinked and straightened up from Draco's grasp. He looked at the two young men with narrowed eyes for a moment, then said, "Oh, you two lads have come for your vehicles, right? I've just finished repairing them. The damage wasn't nearly as bad as it looked."  
  
And with that, he led them into the shadowy garage, where even he still looked a bit surprised about the flawless pieces of machinery in front of him. But he settled the bill with Harry and waved them off with a blustery glower. "Be gone with you and make sure you don't end up here again. I want to go home and sleep. I'm very tired."  
  
Draco blinked in wide-eyed surprise and Harry couldn't help a bark of laughter. The blond's mouth twitched up in a hint of a smirk and he admitted, "Well, I'll be damned."  
  
"You certainly will," Harry muttered as he slid back behind the leather-wrapped steering wheel of his car. The engine turned over this time with a healthy purr and he grinned, feeling his life settling back into place. Malfoy had stood his bike up and was standing straddled over it, the powerful machine thrumming between his legs as he looked to Harry in expectation. With a last grateful wave to the mechanic, who hadn't actually had anything to do with his car's repair, Harry pulled out of the garage and onto the road, kicking up a hail of gravel and dust behind himself. Moments later, Malfoy roared after him, now crouched low over his bike, as Harry had first seen him yesterday. They sped down the empty road till they reached the junction with A4 and then, without any sign, they each went their separate ways into the gathering night.


	6. In Which There Is Learning

**Chapter Six**  
_In Which There Is Learning_

  
HARRY PULLED INTO THE SMALL parking lane next to his house in the full of dark. He turned the ignition off and his lights went out, leaving him sitting alone in the shadows. After several long seconds, he got tiredly out of his car and walked around to the back of the house, letting himself through the small gate half-hidden by the garden's wild growth. Opening the kitchen's back door, he smelled the familiar soapy fragrance of laundry powder. He left his shoes at the door and stepped up into the kitchen to throw together a quick dinner for one. He ate sitting on his sofa, half-heartedly watching an old episode of _Black Books_ , and when he'd finished, he left his dirty dishes on the clean counter-top, for the mess to solidify.  
  
Stepping back into his dirty shoes, he pushed open the back door again. He stood for a moment on the doorstep, breathing in the wet night air. He walked to the wall of his garden, leaning on the dew-spotted stone, and looked at the smooth lines of his car in the moonlight. Everything was back to normal now. He was alone again.  
  
  
  
  
The next morning, Harry woke up confused. Something was wrong and it took him several seconds of lying on his bed, eyes wide and ears pricked, to figure out what it was: there was someone or something rustling around in his kitchen. Since Harry lived alone, this was understandably disturbing. He threw the duvet off himself and, shivering in just his boxer shirts, hurried out of his room, clutching his wand in front of him. He stumbled down the hall and threw himself around the corner, into his sitting room.  
  
Standing in his kitchen, half-hidden inside a cupboard, was a familiar and impossible blond. Harry fell weakly onto his couch and asked in exasperation, "What are you _doing_ here, Malfoy?" He narrowed his still-sleepy eyes at the other man. "And what are you doing in my cupboard?"  
  
"Looking for something to eat."  
  
"That's why you're here? Or why you're stuck in my cupboard? And what are you looking for?"  
  
Draco leaned back and grinned at Harry from around the cupboard. "I'm thinking apples."  
  
"Refrigerator."  
  
The blond followed Harry's gaze to the large white box that was humming against the wall. He stepped up to it and pulled on the obvious sort of handle, surprised when it opened with a blast of cool air. He asked curiously, "You keep fruit in here?"  
  
Harry frowned uncomfortably, with that familiar guilty feeling that--probably due to his less-than-conventional upbringing--he had committed yet another societal faux pas. "Well, where do you keep your fruit?" he asked defensively.  
  
"No idea," Draco said with a shrug, "I don't think I've ever even been in the kitchens at Malfoy Manor."  
  
"That's pitiful."  
  
But the blond man was not listening or caring. He had selected a crisp Gladstone apple and bit into it with a juicy crunch. He hummed happily to himself as the sweet dessert apple's flavour burst in his mouth. Mumbling slightly around the fruit, he belatedly explained, "I came to get my clothes."  
  
Ah, right. Harry had noticed the night before that Malfoy's clothes were left in the washing machine, but couldn't be bothered to do anything about it. He looked blankly at the blond, who was looking expectantly at him, and then finally nodded. "Yeah, so...?"  
  
Draco rolled his eyes and visibly swallowed the apple pieces. "Yeah, so," he repeated, "they are now dry but wrinkled and unpleasant smelling."  
  
Harry had half a mind to tell the former Death Eater to just bugger off with his wrinkled and unpleasant smelling clothes, but he didn't. Or at least he didn't have the chance to, before Malfoy said imperatively, "Fix them."  
  
His eyes narrowed dangerously, Harry asked tightly, "Excuse me?"  
  
"Oh, you know..." Draco said airily, taking another bite from his stolen apple, " _Scourgify, mundus, tergeo lacarnum, nidor evanesco, episkey..._ Take your pick. Anything that will put them back in order."  
  
"Why don't you... Oh, right."  
  
Draco waved his hands in front of himself, the apple balanced between his ring finger and thumb in one, and said the words for Harry, "No wand."  
  
Standing up from the couch, Harry pointed his wand at the washing machine beneath his counter. Malfoy's few articles of clothing and the fluffy yellow towel he'd used all flew out and Harry commanded, " _Tergeo lacarnum. Fold._ "  
  
Onto the counter dropped a pile of neatly folded and sweet-smelling laundry. Draco picked up his small pile and saluted Harry mockingly with his apple. Tucking the clothes under one arm, he walked to the front hall. Harry watched him go silently from where he was standing behind the couch, only turning his head to follow the blond as he let himself out the front door. Minutes later Harry heard the distinctive rumble of a motorbike starting up. And as its roar faded into the distance, he noticed the pile of three spell books sitting on his low coffee table.  
  
Tucking his hands into his boxers, he stared at the books in consternation. He remembered their conversation the day before, and Malfoy's offer of spellbooks. But who would have thought that he would follow through on his flippant promise? Harry took a hesitant half-step toward the kitchen, thinking that he ought to clean his dishes from last night. He ought to eat some breakfast. He ought to make sure Malfoy hadn't left a boggart in his cupboard. But instead he shifted slightly and turned back toward the couch, flopping down on the squashy cushions.  
  
Grabbing the three leather-bound books from the table, he dropped them all on his lap, examining the top one first. It was titled, in swirling gold foil letters, _Help for the Hopeless: 101 Spells Any Decent Wizard Should Know_. Wrinkling his nose in offence, he had no doubt that Malfoy had quite intentionally picked this book out for him and put it on the top of the pile. Why would the Malfoys have even had such a book in their library? Harry wouldn't be surprised if the wanker had actually gone to a bookshop and picked out the most provocative title he could find.  
  
He tilted the small pile of books to read their spines. The other two were _Everyday Magic_ and _Clever Clinkers: Chock-a-block Full of Charms for every Challenge_. At least these two seemed a bit less offencive--though the last still seemed a bit dodgy. Settling down on the couch, he opened the first book and began reading. He had meant to just glance through the table of contents to find out if any of the spells seemed worth looking up, but found himself almost immediately flipping through the pages interestedly. Almost every spell that was described made him wonder how he had made it this age without knowing it.  
  
He had mostly forgot the thrill of magic. The spells that he knew from his days at Hogwarts were all well and good, but they had long since lost their lustre. They were just part of his everyday life, no more remarkable as skills than being able to wash his dishes or drive his car. It had been years since he had tried a new spell and realised all over again all the wonderful things he could do with his wand.  
  
But now he picked up that wand from the coffee table in front of him and rolled it experimentally between his fingers. With a decisive flick, he summoned a piece of note paper and a ball-point pen from a kitchen drawer. Harry no longer kept parchment or quills. He flattened the paper out on top of the spellbook and held the pen over it, hesitating. His fingers tightened on the pen's shaft and he pressed the point down onto the paper. Words spilt out with surprising ease and within moments his sharp, angular handwriting had covered the small paper.  
  
He then set the paper on the table before him and picked up his wand again. Glancing down at the open pages of the spellbook on his lap, he read once again the spell and then then pointed at the paper, his wand tip just grazing it, and whispered, " _Animato viator_." The paper picked itself up and folded into a small origami bird. It fluttered its wings expectantly and hovered before Harry's hand. The man grinned. He remembered the spell, of course, from one of Malfoy's pranks in third year. The Slytherin boy had sent him a nasty note in class. It was time to return the favour.  
  
He lightly cupped the little paper bird in his hand and it fluttered against his fingers like a fragile snitch. He walked over to the window and, with his free hand, pulled it open. The morning sky was a clear and bright blue. The paper messenger bird wouldn't have any trouble making the short trip across Wiltshire. It wasn't a perfect replacement for an owl--it certainly wouldn't make it through inclement weather, and could be easily intercepted--but it worked for Harry's purpose: being an arse.  
  
Leaning his bare torso out the window, he held the fluttering bit of paper up to his face and instructed it, "Go to Malfoy." The puff of air from his words propelled it into the air, as his fingers loosened their cage. It wafted into flight and drifted off to the east, looking very bright white against the blue sky. Harry grinned to watch it go and then pulled himself back inside, closing the window after himself. He knew that a reply, if any were to come, would take quite a while and so he shuffled back to his bedroom, a spellbook and his wand tucked under his arm, and settled back into his now cool sheets to read.  
  
  
  
  
Hours later, Harry emerged from his bed for the second time. This time he actually got dressed and began his day: washing his dishes, having a quick lunch, and--as it was Thursday now--tidying up his yard. It was already August and although many of his shrubs were still blooming wildly, the evidence that fall was nearly upon them was clear, if one knew where to look.  
  
Harry spent several hours puttering around in his garden. As he slowly worked his way around his house, he would stop from time to time and scan the skies, expectantly. But they remained a clear, unknowing blue and nothing interrupted his work other than his own daydreaming. When he had finished his yardwork, he brushed the excess dirt from his clothes and let himself back in the front door. He left his caked shoes at the entrance way and stripped off the rest of his filthy clothes as well, leaving them all in a pile to be cleaned up later. He tiptoed to the bathroom, trying not to leave any dirt on the floors he'd just hoovered the day before. He got to the bathroom, cursed, went to the kitchen, picked up his fluffy towel, which had still been sitting on the countertop, and then finally locked himself in the bathroom for a good long steaming.  
  
He hated to admit it, but the charm that Malfoy had made him cast on the bathtub was really _quite_ nice. He soaked in the steaming bath for nearly thirty minutes, not once having to move or add more hot water. Finally, though, something began to break through his peaceful doze. The faint, tinny sound of cheering coming from his living room, followed by an excited shout. He frowned, half-sitting up in the bath, the hot water dripping off of his body. And then his face twitched into a rueful sort of smile.  
  
He stepped out of the bath, the water falling off him in sheets. He was pleasantly surprised that the charm kept even the water on his body warm, instead of it immediately chilling as it would normally do in the cool air. He wrapped his freshly laundered towel around his waist and, still feeling toasty, padded back to his room to get a fresh set of clothes. He stepped into a well-worn pair of cords and pulled on yet another of his faded t-shirts. Towelling his hair as he walked, he headed back to his living room, unsurprised to find Malfoy sitting there. He was slightly surprised, though, to realise that the other wizard was watching _football_ on his television.  
  
He started to ask, "Malfoy, what are you-"  
  
"Shhh!"  
  
Harry's face scrunched up in semi-amused confusion. "Are you watching foo-"  
  
Without turning away from the screen, Malfoy lobbed a pillow in the direction that Harry's voice was coming from. It missed the other man by several feet. "Do you not understand the meaning of ' _Shhhh_ ,' Potter!?"  
  
Shrugging his mystification, Harry walked back out into the hallway, carefully picking up the dirty clothes that he'd left piled in the entrance way. He tossed them into the washing machine in the kitchen before dropping down onto the couch as well. He noticed that the clothes that Malfoy had borrowed the day before, the clothes that he'd asked for back in his letter, were sitting on the floor at Malfoy's feet, folded neatly. He looked up at the tv screen. It was still quite in early in the game but Harry didn't immediately catch up to what was going on. He didn't particularly follow football. If it happened to be on, he would watch it, but beyond that he never took any interest in the teams or their players.  
  
Still watching the game intently, Malfoy began talking in a tone that invited little response--he seemed to be speaking only for the purpose of insulting Harry, "Did you really expect a reply to your letter, you tosser? How am I supposed to spell a note with no wand? Honestly."  
  
Harry thought for a moment about whether a response would only invite another attack by pillow, but finally said, "You could owl, like a normal person."  
  
Draco threw his words back at him in a snotty mimic, " _You_ could owl, like a normal person."  
  
Harry frowned and tried again, "So what are we watching?"  
  
This finally did get Malfoy to drag his eyes away from the telly for half a moment, if only to stare at Harry in complete disbelief. "The _Royals_."  
  
Silence continued from Harry's side of the couch and Draco was forced to look away from the game again. Harry was looking forward blankly, not meeting his eyes. " _Honestly_ , Potter! The Royals! The only Premier League club within the West Country! The--" He cut off as something dramatic apparently happened on the screen and Harry focussed back on the game to see a player being shown a yellow card. Malfoy cursed, fluently and creatively.  
  
Harry started yet another unsuccessful line of questioning, "Why do you even know about--"  
  
"Quiet."  
  
Harry blinked. "Sorry, _what_?"  
  
"Quiet," Malfoy repeated.  
  
After a few minutes of tense silence on both men's parts, though for very different reasons, there was a brief tune signifying the move to a commercial break. Draco straightened up and said expansively, "Now. You have until play resumes to ask questions. After that, you will be killed for interrupting or otherwise interfering with my watching the game."  
  
Harry started again with his last question, "Why do you even know about football?"  
  
"I'm English. Would you also like to know about tea, bad customer service, and appalling dentistry?"  
  
"But football is Muggle! Why would _you_ watch it?"  
  
"Because _I_ like it."  
  
"Why are you watching it here, then?"  
  
"Because I happened to be here when the game started. Plus I get crap reception at the Manor."  
  
"You have a _television_ at Malfoy Manor?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What is wrong with you?"  
  
And then the opening music chimed again and the commercial break was over. Draco grinned. "Time's up."  
  
They sat through another ten minutes of play, without Harry trying to interject even once. He didn't mind watching the game, of course, but he was a bit distracted by the man next to him. Draco Malfoy, who--he had discovered over the last three days--rode a motorcycle, knew what seemed to be a shocking number of spells, lived alone with a house elf, lent out books freely, and had an odd obsession with Muggle football. Oh, and kept a television in his manor. And cursed and cheered with almost embarrassing abandon while watching the Reading Royals.  
  
The Royals were holding their own in the match, their first of the season, but it was still a close game and Malfoy remained tensed as a bow string until the next break. As soon as the broadcast was interrupted, he slumped back against the squashy couch again and sighed. Harry immediately resumed his questions.  
  
"Since when have you watched football?"  
  
"Hmm, probably three or four years now."  
  
"Why ever did you start?"  
  
"Missed watching Quidditch, I suppose."  
  
"Why didn't you just watch Quidditch?"  
  
The word rolled off Harry's tongue like the taste of a favourite childhood sweet. Malfoy was grinning at him again and said mockingly, "You know, I think I'm just going to stop being shocked at the things that come out of your mouth. I have now officially accepted that you live in an isolated and ignorant bubble and have no understanding of the world outside it." Harry frowned, but the blond continued, "To answer your question then, genius, I can't very well go to watch quidditch games since I am still, technically speaking, a wanted man. Death Eater, remember? We don't tend to faff about much at large, public sporting events."  
  
"Right," said Harry, first hollowly and then with a bit more strength as he got his head around the idea. "Right. Why doesn't the Ministry just come arrest you then? Not like they don't know where you live."  
  
"Ah, the Ministry," Draco mused. "Our diligent hard-working government." He rolled his eyes at Harry's blank look and explained, "They still keep tabs on me, of course. Watch what I'm up to, set up Dark detectors around the Manor, all that sort. But right after the war, all of us Death Eaters who were caught were sent off to Azkaban and interrogated under Veritaserum. I might've been able to avoid Azkaban altogether, if you hadn't buggered off after getting rid of Voldemort and had instead testified about my great assistance in helping you with the last horcrux. But thanks to the interrogation, they've mostly let me walk free." He smiled bitterly. "Great thing, how you can't lie under Veritaserum."  
  
Harry was surprised to find himself thinking about issues that he hadn't for years and he asked seriously, "But you _were_ a Death Eater. Doesn't that mean that you must've... _harmed_ people? And they still let you walk free?"  
  
Draco turned back to the television as the music signalled the return of the game. "Game's on," was his only response.  
  
And so play resumed again. The Royals were now up a point and were fiercely trying to protect their advantage. Harry absently watched the game, replaying Malfoy's responses in his head. He realised just how personal his questions had become and looked sideways at the blond next to him, trying to scrutinise the other man. Assuming that Malfoy was telling the truth about any of it, why was he so damned open? Harry was determined to make that his next question and planned for next break, but as he did so, he found himself getting caught up in the game playing out before him. Malfoy's enthusiasm was contagious and it was hard not to smile at his ridiculous outbursts and curses.  
  
The final moments on the clock wound down and, despite a wild last effort from their challengers, the Royals held out till the end. The crowd at their home stadium was going mad and in the small cottage in Wiltshire, Draco Malfoy had jumped up from the couch and shouted his joy. He slapped Harry on the shoulder--utterly confounding the man--and exclaimed, "Oh, it's going to be a _good_ year!"  
  
Harry reached up to rub his shoulder and thought about his next question. But then he noticed that Malfoy was gathering his jacket and making moves to leave. Without meaning to, he burst out, "You're going?"  
  
Those pale grey eyes looked at him with detached curiosity. Harry was suddenly and oddly reminded of a wolf. He stammered, "I mean, I had other questions..."  
  
Draco's thin lips twitched into a smirk. "Oh, are we playing twenty questions now? You've already used up ten of yours. And that means that I get a turn as well."  
  
Harry tried to recall what he had asked and the number didn't seem quite right. For some reason, he wasn't surprised that Malfoy would have kept count. "I don't think I've used up ten. Or at least you didn't answer all of them. You certainly didn't answer my last question."  
  
Shrugging agreeably, Malfoy conceded, "Fine. We'll set you at eight then. You have twelve questions left. Are you sure you want to use them all up now?"  
  
"What are the rules of the game?"  
  
Why was he talking about games with Malfoy? Why was he trying to bring the other man into his life, instead of pushing him out of it? Could it be that this was the most interesting interaction he'd had with another person in five years?  
  
"The rules..." Draco thought for a moment, then laid them out. "We each get twenty questions to ask one another. If we choose to use one of our questions, the other has to respond, honestly and in full. Once the twenty questions have been used, there is no more obligation to answer, honestly or otherwise. There is no time limit on the game."  
  
Harry objected, "Ah, but we hadn't established the rules yet, when I asked my earlier questions. I don't think they should count against the total."  
  
Malfoy seemed to think quite seriously about Harry's complaint. "However, several of your question were quite invasive. I'll knock the count down to five. That still leaves you with fifteen questions. And to be fair, I'll take off one of my own questions, since I did ask you about what happened with the horcrux."  
  
This seemed relatively fair to Harry, who wasn't offering to count any of his questions from the previous days. He nodded and Malfoy smiled wickedly. He walked past Harry into the kitchen, opened a couple of drawers until he apparently found what he'd been looking for. He tore off another sheet of note paper, just like the one that Harry had earlier used to send him the letter, and wrote across the top in scrawling, bold print, "Scarhead" and "Draco." Underneath his own name, he made one tick and underneath what he had designated as Harry's name, he made another five. Then he tore off a length of cellotape and stuck the list to the refrigerator.  
  
"The game is in play."  



	7. In Which There Is Alcohol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All you need is lo-... no, wait. That's not right. All you need is alcohol.

**Chapter Seven**  
_In Which There Is Alcohol_

  
  
"THE GAME IS IN PLAY."  
  
After his declaration, Malfoy had once again made as if he were going home. Harry looked from the paper on his refrigerator to the blond, and back. "But didn't you just say...?" he started and his voice trailed off into silence.  
  
Draco looked at him with a sort of open appraisal and Harry felt his face flush. He was such an idiot. Why did he keep saying these things, when he wanted nothing more than for Malfoy to disappear? But then maybe he did want something more. Because right now he wanted answers to his questions; the curiosity that the incomprehensible blond had aroused in him was like an itch that he couldn't ignore and couldn't help scratching, though he knew it could only make things worse.  
  
His pale eyebrows raised curiously, Draco pointed out, "Well, since you have already used so many of your questions, I thought you might want to save what's left." Harry didn't dare shake his head, but it seemed that Draco could read his denial all the same. He slung his jacket on and said, "Well, if we're going to be interrogating one another, there's only one proper way to do it: over drinks."  
  
He grabbed the list again from the refrigerator door and picked up his pen, declaring, "To the pub!"  
  
Harry swallowed nervously. "You want to go to a Muggle pub? Are you going to get pissed and turn them all into toads or something?"  
  
"No wand means no curses," Draco said as he came along and shoved Harry in the direction of the door. Harry protested and was awarded the time to grab a jacket for himself as well, and then they were both out in the crisp evening air. They walked out the garden gate and past Malfoy's bike.  
  
"So..." Draco pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Where are we going?"  
  
Harry blinked. "Umm...I don't actually know."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well...I've never actually been to a pub here."  
  
Draco's eyes were wide. "And you've lived here _how_ long?"  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows and asked, "Is that one of your questions?"  
  
The blond deliberately pulled the paper from his pocket and made a tick under his own name.  
  
"Five years," Harry answered.  
  
"Since the war, then."  
  
Harry started. "Er, yeah. I had the idea to come here, back when we were hunting after Voldemort. As soon as it was all over, I came here."  
  
"And you've never been to the pub? You really are pathetic." But his harsh words were paired with an amused smile. He said, "Well, let's just find any shop that's still open."  
  
So they walked up and down the few streets of the small village, till they found Godric's Arms. Malfoy groaned out loud. "As if it weren't bad enough that I'm in _Godric's_ Hollow, now it's even _Godric's Arms_?" But he pushed the door open and stepped into the pub first. Not many of the regulars looked up, until they realised that it was not just another regular who had walked in. The pub was half-full with grizzled locals. The two fit young men, still littered with bruises, stood out for being the only ones under the age of forty, which would have set them apart even if they weren't the only strangers in the room. Which they were.  
  
Draco marched straight up to the bar, seeming unbothered in the least by their reception. He grinned at the landlord and ordered, "Two doubles of your best scotch. And then two pints of bitter."  
  
Harry looked at him with curiosity and so the blond quoted cheekily, "Beer before liquor, never been sicker. Liquor before beer, you're in the clear."  
  
The man behind the bar was looking at the youths askance, but knew his job. He started laying glasses out on the countertop and pouring drinks. Draco gestured Harry over from where he'd been hovering in the middle of the room. Harry made his way up to the bar reluctantly. He hissed into Draco's ear, "'Your best scotch?' Do you think I'm made of money?" He practically was, with what he'd inherited from both his parents and the entire Black estate, but he tended to forget it. Spending one's formative years in near poverty could have that sort of lasting effect.  
  
Draco pulled a money clip from his pocket, which was holding a _very_ thick wad of £20 notes together. "I know that I am." He laughed at the expression on Harry's face. "I came prepared for my trip into Muggledom this time."  
  
The keep had filled the glasses in front of the two young men and said bluntly, "'At'll be forty quid, lad."  
  
Harry made a choking noise, but Draco peeled off two of his £20 notes and handed them over. He slid a scotch and a pint in Harry's direction. He then tossed back his entire double in one go, and Harry watched the other man's pale throat work as he swallowed, slightly awed. Draco slammed the glass back on the bar and licked his lips, then pulled another £20 note from his wad. "Why don't you give me another, and keep the change?"  
  
The landlord's jowled face did not really change expressions--it hardly seemed able--but there was something grudgingly respectful in the way he poured Malfoy another two measures. Not even many of the old regulars would be able to drink scotch like that. And none of them would be able to pay for scotch like that.  
  
This time Draco picked up his two glasses, raising them slightly in an appreciative gesture toward the landlord, and led Harry toward a table in one empty corner. They set their glasses on the varnished tabletop and simultaneously pulled out two chairs. Draco spun his around and sat down straddling it, his arms hugging the chairback. Harry rolled his eyes, then did the same.  
  
Draco pulled the list out from his pocket, where it was getting a bit crumpled, and flattened it out on the tabletop. And then he gestured for Harry to start drinking. "Believe me, all the good questions will come after a couple drinks."  
  
Harry shrugged and took a sip of the scotch that Malfoy had downed like water. He immediately choked and started coughing till tears streamed down his face. Draco laughed out loud, slapping his thigh. The other patrons tried to only stare out of the corners of their eyes, but most failed. Draco picked up his second double scotch and clinked it to the glass grasped in Harry's white-knuckled hand. "To your health, Potter."  
  
Harry glared from his red and bleary eyes, then scrubbed the wetness from his face, and raised his glass again defiantly. They both drank deeply and Harry at least didn't choke this time, though his face was definitely already flushed--either from the coughing or the drink itself.  
  
"So," Draco mused, swirling his drink in his glass, "are you just dynamite in bed?"  
  
Harry did choke again. " _Sorry?_ "  
  
Draco reached out and made another decisive tick under his name, then repeated, "Are you just amazing in bed? Because otherwise I don't understand why that Weasley brat still hangs about you. Or why you let her, unless _she_ is."  
  
Harry had to take another drink. "We, uh, we never..."  
  
"Re-eally?" Draco didn't sound terribly convinced.  
  
Harry glared. "Really."  
  
"Then why?"  
  
Chewing on his lip, Harry looked down at the rich amber scotch in his glass. "Didn't you hear that bit?"  
  
Draco's grey eyes were unreadable again. "Maybe." He narrowed those opaque eyes and then raised his glass, gesturing for Harry to do the same, suggesting, "A bit of liquid courage."  
  
Harry's mouth twitched into a wry grimace and after another swig of 'courage,' he began talking. "When we went after the second to last horcrux--the snake, Nagini--things went wrong. It was just me and Ron. We split up to find the snake. The place didn't seem to have any protections--I should've realised then that something was up. I found the snake and incinerated it, but Ron didn't catch up to me." It felt odd to even say his best friend's name, knowing he was gone. "I had to go look for him. I searched the house. I began to feel cold and then I knew-"  
  
"Dementors," Draco said in an almost smug tone. After all, he himself had once tried to take advantage of Harry's weakness for the Dark creatures.  
  
"Yes," Harry agreed. "Ron hadn't stood a chance against a whole pack of them. I barely managed to get the two of us away, but luckily we had a portkey."  
  
Draco took a long, thoughtful drink, then he said slowly, "Sooo...your ginger pet got Kissed and how exactly does that explain why the gingette is stalking you? Shouldn't she be running in the other direction, wanting to see nothing more than your backside?" He grinned. "Or maybe the problem is that she wants to see nothing more than your backside."  
  
But Harry was looking between his nearly empty scotch and the paper between them on the table. "Wait--how many questions has that been?"  
  
Draco smiled angelically. "Still just one, I'm afraid. I'm still trying to get an answer to my original question."  
  
Harry furrowed his brow, shrugged and tossed back the rest of his drink. "I don't know, really. I mean, she always had that crazy crush on me--even you Slytherins knew about it."  
  
"Even?" Draco laughed, and slid a pint in front of Harry. "More like _especially_ we Slytherins knew about it."  
  
Harry waved that away with a tipsy frown. "Then when we went out in sixth year...well, it was good. _Real_ good. But come on, we were just teenagers. When I left, I thought I wanted to get back together with her again, when everything was over. But that was all I thought. It wasn't like I was planning a future or proposing or anything. I was sixteen!  
  
"But I think she got some kind of expectation, like I was going to save the world again and save her again and then everything would be sunshine and butterflies. We'd be just like my parents." He frowned and mumbled, "Actually, eerily like them. A near copy."  
  
"Except the whole dying part," Draco interjected. "I hope that wasn't part of the plan."  
  
"No-o-o," Harry agreed, "I don't think it was."  
  
He shrugged again and took a sip of his pint. "I don't know, really. Maybe she's just crazy. Or maybe I am. But I can't turn her away, after what I did to Ron, and she can't stop coming, after..." He stared blankly at the table and then, unable to think of a reason, finished lamely, "...something."  
  
"Must've been something, indeed," Draco mused.  
  
Harry took another drink and said, "I think I'm getting a bit drunk. Oh, and I had something to ask!" He seemed to think hard for a minute, musing, "What was it, what was it... Oh, _yes_. Why are you the way that you are? What's _wrong_ with you?"  
  
Draco picked up the pen and looked at Harry questioningly. The drunk man nodded and so Draco made another tick under 'Scarhead.' Then, without any attempts at deflection, he started his story.  
  
"All my life," he said, "I knew I was something. I was a wizard and I was a Malfoy and I was rich. I was clever. I was good-looking-"  
  
"Big-headed?"  
  
"Sometimes," he agreed easily, "but not undeservedly. I was defined by what I was. Wizard. Student. Slytherin. Death Eater. Son." He paused and took a sip from his own pint. "By the time I met you again, when we were seventeen, I had already lost most those things. By the time the war was over, I had lost everything."  
  
"But I thought you still live at the Manor?"  
  
"Yes," Draco said, with an odd soft smile. "I still have a house, money, my good looks, of course, and my wits. But...but everything that was me, everything that I defined myself as--defined _life_ as--was lost to me."  
  
He looked up into Harry's eyes and for once, his eyes seemed clear and open. But Harry still didn't understand what he saw in them.  
  
"I was dead. For a long time, I didn't do anything. My body would've surely died if house elves weren't so endlessly obliging. And since my body didn't die, eventually I had to find a new way to live." Harry understood why he couldn't read those grey eyes when Draco continued, "But inside I've long been dead. I'm just putting in my time and trying to enjoy myself, until my body realises it, too."  
  
Harry shuddered, suddenly feeling chill. He jerked his head up to look at Malfoy, though, when he heard the blond laugh. "Don't worry," Draco said reassuringly, "you probably won't remember any of this tomorrow anyway."  
  
The two men finished their pints in silence and the old men in the pub continued to glare at them suspiciously. Draco looked at their empty glasses. "Do you want another?"  
  
Harry blinked drowsily. "I think," he said carefully, "that I may be drunk."  
  
Draco looked at him closely and then he started laughing, "I think that you may be." Harry looked up at him with glassy eyes and Draco exclaimed, "You really are a light-weight. How much do you usually drink?"  
  
"Usually?" Harry frowned. "I told you I'd never been to the pub here."  
  
"Wait--do you mean that you don't _ever_ drink?"  
  
"Um," Harry mumbled, "I mean, I get a bottle at the grocery every now and again."  
  
Draco ticked the list under his name. "And how often is 'now and again?'"  
  
"...Every three or six months, maybe."  
  
"Oh, Potter--you _lush_." Draco laughed raucously. "Well, let's get one more to keep us warm on the road and then I'll let you go home."  
  
Harry nodded blearily and tried to get to his feet, swaying dangerously. Draco jumped up and came around the small table to steady him. One hand at Harry's elbow, he led the both of them up to the bar again and ordered two shots to go. Throwing another bill on the countertop, he tossed one back himself, then looked over to his drinking mate, who was looking a bit green around the gills.  
  
His pale eyebrows shot up in alarm and he said hastily, "I'll take this one for you, I think," tossing back the second shot as well.  
  
Still pulling the staggering Harry along with him, Draco propelled them back into the cold night air. They stumbled down the road, Harry half hanging from Draco's grip. They hadn't even made it to the road which led to Harry's house before Harry himself groaned, "I think I'm going to be sick."  
  
Draco pulled the other man up straight and said quickly, "Not now, you're not. You'll feel much better getting sick at your own home, believe me." Glancing at Harry from time to time, only to see him looking progressively worse, he forced the two of them down the road. They did make it Harry's house, at least, before the drunk man got sick in his own garden, right on top of a rhododendron bush. Draco tutted disapprovingly and stepped around the huddled figure to open the front door. He half picked Harry up, dragging him into the house. He took a brief moment to kick his shoes off and then hurried them both down the hall to the bathroom. He dumped Harry in front of the toilet and lifted the seat for him.  
  
Harry leaned miserably against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl and Draco sat down on the floor nearby, his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him. Mumbling against the porcelain bowl, Harry asked, "What're you doing?"  
  
"Making sure you don't accidentally die."  
  
Harry hiccoughed and made a face, then asked, "But why?"  
  
"Because-" Draco started, but he was interrupted by the sound of Harry retching again, though at least it was into a toilet this time. He took the opportunity to pull the crumpled tally from his pocket. He marked off another tick on Harry's side and then continued, "Because it would be my fault if you died like this. And I don't think I want you dead."  
  
Harry spat into the toilet one last time and then flushed it, croaking out, "Why?"  
  
"Hmmm." Draco stared at the other man openly and curiously, as if trying to figure it out himself. "I suppose because you're interesting. Of course, you might only seem that way since I don't have anyone else to compare you to. Excepting a house-elf." Draco rolled his eyes and continued, "Bothering you has proved an amusing distraction. I like amusing things. Of course, that means that if you stop being amusing, I might leave you to drown in a pile of your own vomit." He then added thoughtfully, "Plus... if you, Harry Potter, died after being seen with a fellow you'd called 'Malfoy' on several occassions, I imagine the aurors might just notice something awry and come knocking round for answers again."  
  
Harry painfully turned to look at the blond, but couldn't tell if he was serious or not. He asked, "Are you drunk?"  
  
Draco held the pen up warningly and asked, "Is that your question?"  
  
"No," Harry shook his head for a moment, then immediately stopped, blinked, and vomited again into the toilet. To the sound of another flush, he said, "I have a better one. Are you _a_ drunk?"  
  
Draco marked the paper. "Am I an alcoholic, you mean?" He seemed to be calculating in his head again. "I've never really tried to quantify my drinking, so I've never thought about labels. But I do drink. A lot."  
  
"How much?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "Don't keep track."  
  
"More than a bottle?"  
  
"Liquor or beer?"  
  
"Either."  
  
"Beer, of course. Liquor, often."  
  
"Every night?"  
  
For the first time, Draco seemed a little uncomfortable. His brow furrowed as he tried to think of the last night he hadn't gone to sleep with at least a couple drinks in him. "Every night except the one when I got stuck here, I suppose."  
  
Harry asked sleepily, "Don't you think that might be a problem?"  
  
Draco noticed that sleepy tone and pushed himself up off the floor. He stood at the small sink, filling up the bathroom cup with cool water. He stared at his own reflection. He certainly didn't look like he'd consumed over seven units of alcohol in the last hour. He looked completely normal. "I never have," he said, as he handed Harry the cup, "before tonight. Now drink your water. You'll get dehydrated after vomiting and that'll only make you feel worse tomorrow."  
  
Harry swished his first sip around his mouth and spat it into the toilet. Then he drank the rest of the water without complaining. Draco took the cup back and filled it again, leaving it next to Harry on the floor this time. He continued standing, still watching his own reflection in the mirror. He tilted his head from side to side. He pulled his face into a grimace. Then he shrugged and sat back down on the hard floor. "Maybe it's not a problem," he picked up his thread, "I've never hurt anyone else by it. I've never hurt myself, other than a few too many nights spent on a toilet floor, much like this. If it makes me feel good and it doesn't hurt anyone else, then where's the problem?"  
  
Harry squeezed one eye shut and looked at Draco through the other. "I'm not sure," he admitted, "but I think there still is one. I think that people should feel good without alcohol."  
  
"Do you feel good without alcohol?"  
  
"I certainly don't feel good _with_ alcohol," Harry said ruefully.  
  
"But do you feel good ever?"  
  
Harry looked at the paper on the floor. "I don't think you've been doing a proper job as score-keeper."  
  
Draco shrugged and made one tick under each of their names, then asked again, "Do you ever feel good?"  
  
Harry looked at the cup of water next to him. "Sometimes. When I'm out in my car, or walking alone, or working mindlessly in my yard or house. When I can forget anything but the moment that I'm in. Then I think I feel good."  
  
Draco looked at him seriously and made another tick under his own name. "Are you happy?"  
  
Harry's breath whooshed out of him, as if he'd been holding it. "No," he admitted. He looked back at Draco, "Are you?"  
  
The blond looked down at the paper as he made a tick under Harry's name. He said softly, "No."  
  
Harry lowered himself gingerly to the floor, lying down on his back but still within easy reach of the toilet. The room seemed to be moving, though he was quite sure that he was perfectly still. He mused to himself, "I wonder why we made it through the war. So many other people we knew didn't. People who would have used the lives that we're just wasting."  
  
Draco slouched further down the wall, and muttered, "Don't be one of those philosophical drunks, Potter."  
  
And they both trailed into silence, each lost in his own thoughts. The game was forgotten for a time and the paper eventually fell from Draco's limp fingers, as he slipped into a heavy, drugged sleep. Harry didn't notice, though. He'd passed out long before.  
  



	8. In Which There Is Music

**Chapter Eight**  
_In Which There Is Music_

  
HARRY WOKE UP ON THE floor of his own bathroom, the sweetly bitter smell of vomit still in the air. He pried his eyes open, though they seemed insistent upon staying stuck shut. Through the narrow slits of his eyes, shadowed by his thick black lashes, he stared up at the ceiling. There was faint light filtering in through the open door.  
  
Harry was hung over. He'd never been hung over before. It was odd. His head was pounding and felt both swollen and several sizes too small, all at the same time. His mouth was dry and tasted incredibly unpleasant. And his whole body ached from sleeping on the hard, tiled floor. Someone else had been sleeping on that tiled floor with him, though--someone who was responsible for all of this. Where was Malfoy?  
  
Groaning almost inaudibly, Harry slowly began to sit up. His back screamed in protest and he saw black spots dancing in front of his eyes as he inched his way upward. He couldn't immediately get up to his feet, but managed to roll onto his hands and knees, then to grab the edge of the counter to pull himself up to a nearly upright position. He tried to look in the mirror, but realised it was too dark to really see anything. Reaching one fumbling hand behind himself blindly, he managed to flick the power switch and the bright lights bloomed in the small room, illuminating every corner. Harry moaned, as the light seemed to stab straight through his eyes and into his brain like a knife.  
  
He stared at himself in the mirror and thought that, for once, his outside perfectly reflected what he felt inside. His face was white and strained, except for the dark bags under his eyes. The edges of his eyes burned a painful red and around his poisonous green irises the whites of his eyes were hardly white but completely bloodshot. Against his chalky skin, his hair looked completely and flatly black, with none of the hints of brown it sometimes showed. In all, he looked like shit. He grimaced at himself painfully.  
  
Not bothering to even shut the door behind him, he shuffled to the bathtub, pulled his clothes off and left them in a pile at his feet. Then he turned on the shower to blast hot water and laid himself down in his tub, half-reclining against the back as if he were actually taking a bath, and let the steamy water pound down on him, running off his limp body and down the drain. It felt good for a while, but then the heat started to make him feel nauseous again. He stretched out one thin leg, sprinkled with black hairs, to kick at the controls until he managed to knock the shower back off. A thin trail of water continued to dribble from the shower head.  
  
Harry continued to lie in the tub, which didn't get uncomfortably cold, thanks to that damned heating charm of Malfoy's. It was as if the porcelain bathtub were heated from within and he was surrounded by a cocoon of warmth. His eyes were half shuttered again and he drifted in his dazed state until suddenly something soft and fuzzy hit him. He looked down at himself and found that he was now covered loosely in one of his own towels. He looked up to find Malfoy shaking his head in a resigned sort of way.  
  
"Good morning, sunshine," the blond said sarcastically. "Though it's much closer to afternoon than morning."  
  
"Wh-what time is it?" Harry croaked out.  
  
"Half-eleven already. I'd been waiting for you to wake up naturally. Thought I'd let you sleep through as much of the hangover as possible."  
  
Harry sat up and wrapped the towel about himself, asking, "What've you been doing all this time?"  
  
Draco shrugged and looked around the bathroom. "Nothing much."  
  
Harry looked over at him from the corners of his narrowed eyes, but Draco was walking out of the room. As he went, he called over his shoulder, "You'll probably be wanting to put some clothes on."  
  
That seemed a bit much, coming from the drunkard who had got him into this mess. Out of pure contrariness, Harry contemplated just continuing to rot away in the bathtub. But then he forced himself up. Rubbing himself down with the towel, he staggered to his own bedroom to find some fresh clothes. After only five minutes of fighting down nausea, wincing at the sunlight and listening to the blood pounding through the veins in his head, he had managed to pull on a pair of trousers, a baggy jumper and a pair of socks, and to stumble back out to his living room. He was a bit surprised to find Malfoy standing stock still in front of his washing machine.  
  
Easing himself down to perch on the edge of the couch, he called out wearily, "What are you doing now?"  
  
"Figuring out your Muggle machine," came the shocking answer. The blond squatted in front of the machine and carefully turned the dials on the front and then decisively depressed the button marked, "Start." Harry asked mildly from the couch, "Did you add washing detergent?"  
  
The sudden awkward stillness in Malfoy's stance said quite clearly that he had not, and further had not known to. But all he said was, "As if I would--do you know what sort of unnatural chemicals these Muggles use?"  
  
Harry rolled his eyes but certainly didn't care enough to get up again and fix it. He'd do the damned wash again later if he had to. For now, he lowered himself to recline on the couch, closing his eyes in relief. He had only meant to shut out the glaring sunlight that was giving him such an awful headache, but he must have dozed off again, because when he next opened his eyes, there was a blanket draped over him and he could hear a [strange humming](http://www.classical.com/listen/player4/index.php?token=%24R~CCiC~9iV~h%240Wr0RH3V399dVbCCG3bdZ&rnd=62) coming from his kitchen.  
  
"Malfoy?" he mumbled sleepily. The humming stopped. He licked his lips and asked, "Wazzat?"  
  
"Slavonic Dance in E Minor, opus 72, number 2. By Dvorak." The reply came from much closer than he'd expected and he started slightly. Malfoy set a glass of water on the coffee table next to Harry and said imperiously, "Drink your water."  
  
Harry wanted to ask why Malfoy was being so _nice_ to him--covering him with blankets, letting him sleep, giving him water. But his curious mind was on the losing end of the battle; his body had already decided that it would much rather sleep. He managed a couple of deep swigs of water, only dribbling on himself a little. Then the cup was plucked from his loose fingers and as the strains of haunting music started up again, he was asleep.  
  
  
  
  
The next time Harry woke, he did actually feel more human. For the first time all day, he had an appetite and he felt like he could move without wanting to die. He slowly sat up and waited for his body to protest, but it only twinged a bit. Rolling his head about on his neck slowly, he looked around the room. There was no sign of Malfoy.  
  
Pushing himself up stiffly, he noticed the glass of water still sitting on the coffee table. He took it with him as he walked around the couch and into the kitchen. Sipping from the glass, he opened the refrigerator. Inside it, his shelves were rather bare, as usual. But right in the middle, there were two plates which were piled with two very sloppily-made sandwiches. Drinking down the rest of his water, he shut the refrigerator door again, noticing this time the crumpled tally that had been replaced on its front.  
  
Harry walked to the front window of his sitting room and looked out over his garden. He could still see Malfoy's bike out in the lane. And more curiously, he noticed that the places where he seemed to remember being sick the night before had all been washed down with water. He walked into the hall and, sure enough, Draco's shoes were still sitting there next to his own. He glanced down the hall, then stepped toward his extra room, where he'd first left the blond three nights prior.  
  
In the small, empty bedroom, on top of the plain white bed, there was Draco Malfoy, dozing lightly. He was still wearing his trousers and shirt, though they'd got all rucked up. His fine blond hair was sticking to both his own skin and the pillow beneath his head, and one thin white arm was flung across his face. Harry coughed subtly and the blond immediately lowered his arm, looking quite alert.  
  
"You're awake?" he asked in a clear voice.  
  
"I might ask the same," Harry said wryly.  
  
Draco sat up and shoved his hair out of his face, running his fingers through its many tangles. He asked as he got up, "Did you just wake?"  
  
"Yeah. I noticed that you cleaned up outside. And made sandwiches. Er, thanks."  
  
Draco grinned a bit wildly. "Hardly. It's quite amusing for me to be on the other side. Not the one completely hung-over and wanting to die, that is."  
  
Harry stepped back as Malfoy went past him and back into the hall. "Is that why you did it all?"  
  
Smirking over his shoulder, Draco asked, "Do we need our list again?"  
  
"Will you not answer otherwise?"  
  
"Well, there'd be no point to our game otherwise."  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine, go on and take off another tick for me."  
  
"You know," Draco said, as he walked into the kitchen, "that now puts you over ten. Which means you've used up over half your questions. I, on the other hand, still have a total excess of questions available to me."  
  
Harry leaned on the counter, watching as Malfoy pulled another pen from his junk drawer and made a mark on the list on the refrigerator. "You know that I'm not at all surprised that you would have memorised the score."  
  
"Nor should you be," Draco agreed. "You wanted to know if I stayed around just because it's entertaining for me not to be the one hung over?" He tilted his head to the side. "Well, it certainly is part of it. It feels... hmm," he paused, seeming at a loss of words, " _interesting_ , I suppose, to take care of someone the way I would like to have been taken care of, all those days I woke up completely miserable and helpless." He grinned and then said cheekily, "And it's a bit like having a pet, I suppose."  
  
Harry eyed the sandwiches that Draco had just pulled from the fridge and asked, "So now you're going to, what, feed your pet and take me for walkies?"  
  
Draco smirked mysteriously. "Only if you're a good boy."  
  
Harry had to keep asking, using up his questions. "What did you do all this time?"  
  
The blond looked at him with a raised brow and pointed out, "You're going to have to be a bit more specific than 'all this time.'"  
  
"While I was practically comatose, thanks to your brilliant idea of going to pub," Harry helpfully clarified.  
  
"Ah, that 'all this time.'" He stepped over to make another mark and when he came back, he picked up the two plates of sandwiches and walked them over to the tiny dining table. He set one plate in front of himself and the other across from him, gesturing for Harry to sit. "I made sandwiches, obviously. Which was quite a feat, really, considering the state of your larder. I also checked on you from time to time to make sure you weren't dead. I, of course, searched through all of your most personal belongings and read your very secret diaries-"  
  
Harry had choked and then narrowed his eyes at the blond. He swallowed down his mouthful of sandwich--which wasn't half bad, actually--and said dangerously, "I don't have any diaries, very secret or otherwise."  
  
Draco took a large bite of his own sandwich and grinned, a smear of mustard on his cheek. "A joke, Potter. A joke." He wiped at his cheek, spreading the smudge of yellow mustard more than removing it, but Harry chose not to say anything. Yet. Draco picked up his answer, "Mostly I sat around thinking and dozing. There really isn't much to do in here. No books, no music, nothing but a telly--which I could hardly turn on without risking your precious, drunken sleep."  
  
Harry ignored that jibing tone and asked, "Is that what you do at home, then? Books? Music?"  
  
Malfoy groaned and looked over at their list, which was still stuck to the refrigerator with cellotape. "You would," he complained, "insist on asking more questions, just when I've sat down to eat." He looked at Harry with pathetic eyes and suggested, "Go be a dear and get the list."  
  
Watching as Harry spluttered on his sandwich, Draco further pointed out, "I did make you lunch, after all."  
  
"Yeah, from my own food!"  
  
"Well..." Draco agreed demurely, then looked at the list in the kitchen, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Harry gave a great harrumph, but did get up and bring the list back to the table. He'd had the sense to bring a pen, as well, otherwise he knew Draco would simply ask for that next. But he kept the list in front of himself this time and made a tick under his own 'name', which he then proceeded to cross out. He re-wrote "Harry" at the top of his list, then crossed out "Draco" and replaced it with "Ferret."  
  
Draco watched all this patiently, not saying a word until Harry was finished. "What do I do at home? Well, yes, I do read a lot. Which helps explain why I am not a complete moron like yourself. I read spell books and a lot of history. Also classics. I watch football on the telly when it's on. I'll sometimes watch other programmes, if I'm bored enough--mostly BBC. Oh, and I watch a fair bit of Channel 4."  
  
Harry goggled at him and Draco grinned, explaining, "I find Muggles' explanations of things quite amusing. And some of them do have a good sense of humour." He took another bite of his sandwich and took the time to chew and swallow it before continuing, "Let's see, what else? I sometimes kick the ball around a bit on my own, out on the grounds. I walk a lot. I go out on my bike sometimes, as you know. And I practise piano."  
  
"Piano?" Harry asked blankly.  
  
Draco looked at him tiredly and said, "Even you must know what a piano is, Potter."  
  
Harry flushed. "Of course I know what a piano is!" he insisted hotly. "I was just surprised to hear it!" He took another bite of his sandwich and glared at the blond.  
  
"Over all," Draco summed up, "I don't do a hell of a lot. Obviously--since I did say that I find being with you entertaining. I must not have very high standards."  
  
Harry frowned nastily at him and then suggested, "Show me some time."  
  
"Why should I?"  
  
"Um, how about, 'Because you've been bumming off my generosity for half the week?'"  
  
Malfoy shook his head. "Ah, but my home is my private sanctuary."  
  
Harry stared at him disbelievingly and protested, "More like your private prison, from what you've said! Besides, how is your home any more private than mine?"  
  
"Because I'm rich," came Malfoy's easy answer.  
  
Harry goggled at him disbelievingly and so Malfoy continued, "The rich can pay for their privacy." Then he looked chagrined and looked at the list, muttering, "Oh, bugger, have I given away some answers?"  
  
Stuffing the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth, Harry said firmly, "I'll come tomorrow then."  
  
"No."  
  
"I'll be there."  
  
"No."  
  
"I've made up my mind," Harry said with a satisfied almost-smirk.  
  
Draco whined like a little child, "Potter, _nooo._ It's really boring. You'll regret it, I swear."  
  
Harry grinned, knowing he'd won. "Well, we'll know that for sure tomorrow, won't we?"  
  
Draco was glaring, his icy grey eyes narrowed resentfully at Harry. But somehow, his venom didn't seem sincere--more as if he were playing along in some game. "I could get you drunk again," he suggested. "Then you might forget about this crazy visiting idea."  
  
"No," Harry blurted out quickly, "no more alcohol. Not today. Not for a long time."  
  
An evil sort of twitch curled Draco's pale lips. "I could put _anything_ into your drink if you come to the Manor," he purred dangerously. " _Anything_."  
  
Harry asked in a bored sort of tone, "Are you threatening to poison me or get me drunk, Malfoy? Not that they mightn't amount to the same thing."  
  
Draco pouted, the smudge of yellow mustard still adding to his expression. "I take it back, Potter. You're no fun at all."  
  
"Malfoy, you've got mustard on your face."  



	9. In Which There Is Uninhibited Texting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Black sheep is a derogatory colloquialism in the English language meaning an outsider or one who is different in a way which others disapprove of. This can be someone who has been shunned by others, or one who has chosen to be an outsider, due to actions and aims that separate them from the rest of the people or 'flock.'"

**Chapter Nine**  
_In Which There Is Uninhibited Texting_

  
  
HARRY WOKE UP TO A strange buzzing noise, like something vibrating. He blinked fuzzily up at his ceiling. The buzzing was followed by chiming. He didn't own an alarm clock so it surely couldn't be that. The sound seemed to be coming from right beside his left ear. He turned to look and then nearly jumped out of bed.  
  
There was a mobile phone sitting on his pillow. But Harry didn't have a mobile phone. And there was hardly the possibility that one of his friends had left one at his house, since he didn't have any friends either. He looked at it suspiciously. It had stopped vibrating now, but the lights on its shell were flashing at him insistently. Apparently he had a message.  
  
Harry had never used a mobile phone before, but of course he'd seen them on television and in films. He knew enough to pick the little device up and flip it open. A window popped up on the small screen, which read, "One new text message." Unable to help looking around suspiciously, Harry closed the phone. He called out warily, "Malfoy? Is this some new prank?" But there was utter silence in his small house; the blond hadn't shown up uninvited this morning.  
  
Opening the mobile again, he saw that his little notice had gone away. "Bugger," he muttered, then started pressing keys until he found a menu of sorts, full of icons. One looked like a pulsating envelope and when selected, it read "Messaging." He clicked another button and a new list appeared, which included the promising looking option, "Inbox (1 new)." After only a few more clicks, he found himself squinting at the little screen in front of him, reading his mysterious message.  
  
_Don't come today._  
 _Will call later. DM_  
  
Harry tried to scroll down further, but that was the end of the message. "DM?" Who else could it be, but Draco Malfoy? But how could it possibly be Malfoy? Why would Malfoy have a mobile, when Harry himself did not? Why would he send Harry a mobile? And how? Had he got a new wand? "What the hell is this?!" Harry exclaimed, for the otherwise empty house's benefit.  
  
He noticed that a new option had appeared at the bottom of the screen: "Reply." He clicked on it and struggled with the little keypad for several minutes to produce: _Malfoy? Why the hell not? And how the hell did this phone end up in my bed?_ It took him no little effort to input all the words--especially the extra curse words--but he found the effort worth it, to feel as if he had expressed his ill humour to some degree.  
  
He hit send and was shocked when, less than a minute later, the phone buzzed again, playing its strange song. He opened the new message.  
  
_Yes, Malfoy. Sick Malfoy. So don't bother me. And you should know better than I how things end up in your bed. Piss off and let me sleep._  
  
Harry hesitated for a moment. Malfoy seemed serious, but... Struggling with the mobile again, but getting more used to its layout, Harry typed out another reply.  
  
_Are you really sick? Or just trying to stop me from coming?_  
  
Again, the reply came much quicker than Harry could have ever managed.  
  
_You better mark this down on the list. YES. REALLY SICK. PISS OFF._  
  
It was a bit amazing, really, that Harry didn't get mad reading a message like that, but merely snickered. He'd made Malfoy mad. With a wily glint in his eye, he stared at the message on his screen, contemplating what to write back to really rile the other man. He still had a lot of payback coming for the previous day's god-awful hangover. But before he started to type anything, the phone buzzed in his hand. The alert on the screen was a new one. This one read, "Incoming call: 07902528010." Before stopping to think just where the phone had come from or who might be calling it, Harry hit the accept button and lifted the phone to his ear, saying unsurely, "Hello?"  
  
A raspy voice barked out of the other end, " _Really_ sick. Don't write me bothersome messages. I know you thought about it. I'm going to turn off my phone now."  
  
Harry's eyes popped open in surprise, "W-w-wait! Malfoy?!" He listened for a moment for a reply. "Malfoy! You still there?"  
  
He heard a miserable sniffle and then a familiar whining tone, "I'm wishing I weren't."  
  
"What's with the phones?" Harry demanded. "Why did you--"  
  
Malfoy cut him off as soon as he heard the first question, though, with an annoyed snort. "That can wait, Potter. I'm going to sleep. And I'm _turning off my phone now._ "  
  
"But-"  
  
" _Now._ "  
  
And then there was a click and the call was lost. Harry looked at his new phone in bemusement. He had no doubt that Malfoy would have really shut off his mobile to avoid further messages. But he was still mystified as to why Malfoy would even _have_ a mobile. Most wizards didn't even know how to use a regular telephone, let alone own something as complicated as a mobile.  
  
Harry flopped back against his pillow and looked at the little phone in his hand. Opening it once again, he typed out another message, though he expected no reply: _Why do you have a mobile? And why did you send me one? And how?_ He continued to scroll through the phone's messages, slowly acclimating himself to the little piece of muggle technology. He found a number of games on the phone and tried each one, consequently giving up on each one when he died after only a few seconds. He managed to find a record of calls on the phone. At the top was the number Malfoy had called from, presumably his own mobile. After a couple of failed attempts, he saved the number and named the contact, "Wanker." There were no other numbers in the record.  
  
Bored, Harry typed another message, getting the hang of it. _Are you really asleep?_  
  
Of course, he received no reply. He wrote again: _You're no fun._  
  
Still no response. Harry closed the phone and let it fall onto his duvet. He stared up at his ceiling again, lit with the bright morning sunshine. What was he going to do now? Ever since Malfoy had gone home the afternoon before, Harry had amused himself with imagining progressively worse versions of Malfoy Manor. By the time he'd gone to bed, he'd been expecting to go the next day to find it the English home of the Marquis de Sade.  
  
And now he had nothing to do with his day. Except, of course, the usual cooking and cleaning and daily life. But now that didn't sound nearly as promising as a romp around the surely haunted familial home of the Malfoys, complete with torture rooms and daily sacrifices.  
  
"Hmph."  
  
Harry chewed on his lip, thinking clearly for the first time in a while. His hangover was completely gone now and as he remembered the misery of the day before, he also remembered something Malfoy had said. The blond had been looking thoughtful and almost a bit pensive, when he'd told Harry, "It feels, hmm, _interesting_ , I suppose, to take care of someone the way I would like to have been taken care of, all those days I woke up completely miserable and helpless."  
  
And Harry began to grin.  
  
  
  
  
It was several hours later that Harry found himself standing out in the countryside of Wiltshire, staring up at a rusty iron gate set in a crumbling stone wall. This wasn't at all what he'd expected. He wondered if he hadn't apparated to the wrong place. Remembering what Malfoy had told him years ago, he had simply concentrated on the idea of being outside Malfoy Manor and left the rest of it up to magic. Could this really be the infamous Manor, though?  
  
Through the barred gates, he could see nothing more than overgrown forestland and what had once perhaps been a gravelled drive. He eyed the gate, which had spikes protruding outward from it to keep away any unwelcome visitors. That alone seemed like Malfoy. That and the ornate "M" that was worked into the spikes and flourishes.  
  
Reaching warily between the spikes, Harry brushed his fingers over the iron of the gate. If this really were Malfoy's home, he would half-expect the iron bars to crush his hand, the metal to scald off his skin, or the spikes to shoot out at him like arrows. But none of those things happened, and his fingers rested on the regular old iron, unscathed. He struggled to push the ancient-looking gate and it moved barely a centimetre, with a great grinding and screeching noise. Harry winced, then reached out with his other hand to push more firmly. This time the gate gave a bit more. Grinning at his minor success, Harry gave one more great heave and the gates wrenched apart just enough for him to slip through.  
  
He stepped carefully between the metal, making sure he didn't catch his clothing on any of the prickly spikes. Then he turned back to the wilderness he'd seen through the gate and gasped. Now that he was inside, he was staring at a completely different scene. Either he had been transported somewhere else or there was a charm on the Manor like the one on Hogwarts, which made it appear a heap of stone ruins to outsiders. Stretched in front of him now were pristine grounds as far as the eye could see. He was standing on a neat lane, paved with perfectly uniform white stones. It ran straight forward between two rows of towering poplars, their dark grey-brown bark appearing even darker amongst their sunlit and gold-tinged green leaves. At the end of their stretch, looking almost preternaturally picturesque, was what could only be described as a _palace_  made of warm, golden stone.  
  
This was even harder to believe as Malfoy Manor than the earlier crumbling gate and roughly wild woods. Harry pinched himself. Then he looked around warily. Perhaps it was some sort of trick--to put interlopers at ease, before setting the hell hounds on them. But he heard no approach of slavering beasts, no alarms ringing or banshees screaming. The only sound was the gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze and the occasional twitter of an unseen bird.  
  
Harry pulled the mobile phone from his pocket and hurriedly typed out a message. _Awake yet?_  
  
After less than a minute, the phone actually did vibrate in response. Harry quickly opened the message and read, _Why won't you leave me in peace?_ He could almost hear Malfoy's whiny voice in his head. He hurriedly selected Malfoy's number (still under "Wanker," of course) and hit the "Send" button. He held the phone up to his ear and waited nervously as it rang.  
  
The call connected and Malfoy's voice came through the phone in the exact tone Harry had imagined. " _What_ , Potter?"  
  
"What does your house look like, Malfoy?"  
  
He heard a petulant sniffle and then Draco rattled off, "Oh, you know, a great black beastly building, with turrets, and vats for boiling oil on the roof, guarded by dragons--"  
  
Harry cut him off, as he started walking down the pristine lane. "I'll use one of my questions, so what does it really look like?"  
  
There was an unsure silence on the other end of the line, then Draco said, "Fine, then. Check one more for yourself. It's a great, massive place, all made of Cotswold stone and in the baroque fashion. There is a pediment on the front, a nearly ridiculous number of pillars, and towers at each corner, complete with belvederes. Shall I continue? And why do you want to know?"  
  
"Because," Harry breathed disbelievingly, staring up at the building that Draco had just described, "I think I'm standing in front of it."  
  
The phone call cut off with a sharp click and Harry continued to stare up at the manor, the now unnecessary phone still held to his ear. Within moments, a window was flung open on the second floor of the eastern wing and Harry spotted a bright blond head craning out of it. Malfoy's frustrated yell echoed across the grounds. " _Potter! You complete bastard!_ "  
  
Harry grinned. He heard Malfoy next yell to someone named Merry to let their guest in, though he noted the extremely sarcastic stress on the word "guest." The front door opened almost immediately and as Harry drew closer to the house, he saw that it was held open by a withered old house elf. Harry walked up the flight of broad, shallow steps that lead to the entrance, then stepped into the shadows of the great columns that flanked the front door. As he saw the house elf up close, he thought to himself that Merry must be the most inappropriate name imaginable for the miserable little creature, which looked as if it had never ever managed anything more upbeat than "mild annoyance," let alone something that might be described as "merry."  
  
Out of long habit, which he had Hermione to thank for, he smiled in an embarrassed sort of way and thanked the house elf. It snorted its disgust and let the door fall shut so quickly that Harry had to rush inside or it would have struck him flat on the back. He was standing in a cavernous entry way, faced with two arching stairways on each side of the room, which led up to the first and second floors. The ground floor upon which he was standing was decorated with mind-boggling mix of inlaid woods and mosaics. The walls towered around him and were covered with paintings and portraits in ornate frames. Directly in front of him was a polished mahogany table, which held a marble bust surrounded by fresh flowers. His gaze turned to the hallways that led off from the room and hinted at countless more doors. It was all terribly formal, but not in the dark, evil sort of way that he had expected. He noticed that the grumpy house elf had disappeared from his side, but then heard Malfoy's rasping voice from above him, "Well, come on up, then."  
  
He looked back up to the top of the staircases and saw Malfoy, wrapped in a heavy black housecoat, walking away. "O-oi, wait!" he called, and started up the staircase, pulling himself along with the carved wooden handrail and taking the finely carpeted stairs two at a time. He made it to the top, short of breath and just in time to see Malfoy disappearing down the hall. He dashed after the other man and followed him into an opulent bedroom.  
  
Malfoy threw himself face-down onto a rumpled bed, which was surely wide enough to hold another four or five people without strain, and mumbled resentfully into the silk coverlet, "What're you doing here?" He had to sit up almost immediately, to reach for a box of tissues. Dabbing at his running nose, he took the opportunity to glare at Harry meaningfully.  
  
Harry wasn't fazed in the slightest and was still grinning as he caught his breath. "I thought I'd come divert you from your miserable condition." He looked around the wide room, which had huge windows looking out onto the path he'd just arrived from. "From what you said yesterday, it sounded like you needed some entertaining."  
  
Draco collapsed against the mound of pillows at the head of his bed and asked tiredly, "How did you find the place?"  
  
Harry asked in a chipper tone, "Should I get out the list?"  
  
But Draco shook his head emphatically and said haughtily, "Oh, no, you will not. You show up uninvited at my home, when I am at my worst--and probably due to sleeping on your bathroom floor--and dare to take off my questions? No, you will answer them and I will hear no complaints."  
  
Harry rolled his eyes, but didn't mind answering, "I simply apparated here. Don't you have any sort of wards or anything?"  
  
Draco frowned. "We did. But I know that the aurors, when they came, took down every hex, curse and protection that even smelt Dark to them. There might not be much left."  
  
Looking appreciatively at the ornate furniture littering the room, and the finely painted murals on the ceiling--which did not depict torture or hellish beasts, but classical nudes gallivanting joyfully between the multiple chandeliers--Harry mentioned, "Your house is really, erm, _pretty._ "  
  
From beneath his arms, which were crossed over his face, came Malfoy's muffled voice, "What else did you expect?"  
  
"I don't know," Harry said honestly. "Something a lot more _severe._ Like you said, 'a great black beastly building.'"  
  
Draco snorted and rolled on his side, dragging some blankets over himself. "And here instead you've found the welcoming arms of the real Malfoy Manor." He looked over at Harry, who was still fixed in the middle of the room, looking about himself in wonder. "It was built for the sweetheart of one of the earlier Malfoys, if that helps explain anything. He was apparently madly in love with his young bride and built this little love shack for her, back at the turn of the 18th century."  
  
Harry nodded in a considering manner. "That could explain some of it." He stepped over towards the bed, sitting gingerly on the edge of it, which still left a good ten feet between himself and Malfoy, thanks to its ridiculous size. Still looking around the room, he said a bit sadly, "Though I still expected some torture devices."  
  
"You fool, Potter," Malfoy scoffed at him, "those are kept in the dungeons, of course. No one who's anyone keeps such things in the sitting rooms."  
  
Draco noticed that the other man was still buzzing curiosity and eyeing the door. He waved him off with a hand, saying, "Obviously you want to explore. Go to it, then."  
  
Harry spun around to look at him and there was a hint of an embarrassed flush riding his cheeks. "No, I'm just--I mean... Really? You don't mind?"  
  
The blond sniffled and plucked up another tissue. "Sure. I'll still be wasting away here when you get back. And there's nothing much dangerous left, after the aurors did their work. You shouldn't be in danger of losing your head or anything. The only thing to watch out for is Merry, who..." The blond trailed into thoughtful silence for a moment, then suddenly bellowed out, " _MERRY!_ "  
  
Harry winced, still unable to reconcile the name with the skulking creature that appeared in the room with a tired-sounding _pop_. He looked at the house elf again, but it was glaring at Draco with unconcealed hatred. Draco said easily, "Merry, you will not get in my visitor's way nor harass him in any way or do anything to make him uncomfortable. In fact you will not be in the same room as him except on occasions when you are specifically called for by name. And you may not set anything up in advance that will cause him any sort of trouble. If he has any wishes, you will obey him as you would me, your proper master."  
  
The house elf muttered something in a gravelly tone, to the effect of, "Nothing proper about him, no, nothing proper or right at all..." But he disappeared again without any argument--he had no choice, after all.  
  
Malfoy grinned and explained, "He doesn't quite approve of the direction that I've taken the family in. You know, helping depose a Dark lord and all." As he had once been as a boy, Harry was again reminded suddenly and unexpectedly of Sirius as he stared at the slightly wild smile on Malfoy's flushed face. "Now," the blond ordered, "go get your curiosity out of you or you'll annoy me endlessly. And don't break anything. Unless it's spectacularly ugly, in which case you have my permission."  
  
Chuckling, Harry got off the bed and walked to the door, glancing back just before he left the bedroom to see Malfoy curled up on the bed, hugging his box of tissues to his chest as if it were a security blanket. He shut the door behind him and looked around at the hallway he had just re-entered. The walls were painted a slightly greyish dark green, like leaves under a winter shadow, and were accented with incredible mouldings and paintings of natural scenes. He looked back toward the stairs he'd come up and then in the opposite direction. Decided to do things properly, he headed back down to the stairs and from there, to the ground floor. Staring around the grand hall again, he chose a corridor at random and began his self-guided tour.  
  
Feeling as if he were in some other world, Harry wandered through the ridiculously beautiful rooms. It was like a film location, but Malfoy really did live here everyday. What could he have possibly been interested in Harry's plain little house for? Here there were whole wings dedicated to different themes, Harry soon realised. The corridor in which Draco's room had been had clearly had a forest theme, but he also found a sea-side theme, where all the rooms were painted in shades of hazy blues and the statuary and paintings all depicted oceanscapes and watery gods and nymphs. There was a autumnal drawing room and set of attached rooms, decked out in warm shades of rust, brown and gold, and the dark wooden mouldings ornate with leaves, fruits and autumn flowers. Another set of rooms seemed primed for winter, and were decorated in the palest shades of blue and grey, filled with crystal and dark wood, which stood out like barren trees in a snowy landscape. Off of these rooms, Harry found the piano room.  
  
He had to blink when he first stepped into the room. Everything was white. The walls, the trimming, the sofas and settees and even the piano itself. When he closed the door behind himself, it was painted white as well and enclosed him in unreal space. The only colour came from the large windows which dominated one wall and looked out onto a brilliant blue river, couched between rolling green hills and crossed by a stunning covered bridge, made of the same golden stone as the house and complete with fanciful turrets and positively dripping with gothic detail. Against the shocking white of the room, the window frame and even the curtains, the scene looked as unreal as a painting. Harry had to step closer to the window and actually see the clarity of the water flowing turgidly in the river to guess that it was real and not a wizarding painting.  
  
Letting out an impressed sigh, he turned back to the flat white room. He felt too dirty to even be standing on the perfectly white marble flooring. He stepped closer to the piano, though, remembering Draco's comment about practising. Harry had never seen someone play the piano. Well, not since his Aunt Petunia had forced Dudley to learn piano for a couple years when they'd been children, and that had been more like watching someone have a seizure in front of a piano than anything that could be called music. He pried the lid up carefully and curiously, revealing the black and white keys beneath its lacquered protection. He laid his fingers lightly on the keys, not quite daring to depress them. Then he carefully pressed one down, eliciting a high clear note that hung in the silent, white air of the room.  
  
Jumping at the sound that he himself had made, Harry's eyes crinkled in amused curiosity. He ran his fingers along the keys decisively, causing a sudden cacophony of noise which echoed loudly in the long room. As the sound faded, Harry heard a different tone. It was accompanied by a tingling vibration in his pocket and he realised that it was the mobile phone again. He pulled it out and saw that it was Malfoy. He was still laughing as he answered the call with, "Are you calling me on the phone when we're inside the same bloody house?"  
  
"Well, how else was I going to get your attention?" came Draco's snarky reply. "Are you mucking about with my piano?"  
  
Harry laughed again, closing the piano's cover with a sharp snap as he did so. "I confess. It was me. Did you suspect Merry, perhaps?"  
  
Draco's wry voice echoed in his ear, "Hardly. He knows he'd have to iron his fingers if he ever touched the piano for any purpose other than the most careful cleaning."  
  
Harry snorted at this casual mention of brutality and said, "You two sure do get on smashingly, don't you?"  
  
Draco's laugh poured through the phone's tinny speaker and he agreed, "I know, we're just horrid to each other. But we have no one else to bother. We're both stuck here, clinging to the Malfoy name." Harry had opened the door and stepped back out of the white room, and Draco heard the soft noise of the door opening and asked, "Where are you going now?"  
  
"Damned if I know."  
  
Harry wandered back out of the winter rooms and into the corridor, and heard Draco suggest, "If you haven't been, you should see the library. It's quite something."  
  
Harry looked about blankly and asked, "How might one get there?"  
  
"You're in the grey corridor, aren't you?"  
  
"Ye-es," Harry agreed slowly, looking around at the grey walls.  
  
And from there, Draco gave him explicit instructions to get to the other side of the first floor, through a couple of hallways and finally landed him before the great double doors which led to the library. Harry was nearly intimidated to open them, but holding the phone up with one hand, he reached out and pushed one of the heavy doors open with his other. On the other end of the line, Draco was rewarded by hearing the other man's shocked gasp and he grinned, imagining how the library must look to a visitor.  
  
It was a huge, circular room, at least twenty-five metres across from what he could see of the walls. It could have doubled for a ballroom, if it weren't for all the books taking up the floor space. The walls, all the way up to the domed ceiling, were covered with shelving filled with books and spotted here and there with ladders. There were two separate "floors"--though they were more like landings as they were really nothing more than narrow ledges among the books, made secure by intricate iron railings and reached by delicate spiral staircases. The centre of the room was filled with concentric rings of book shelves, each slightly shorter than the previous, until the very centre shelves were only a bit taller than Harry himself was, while the tallest towered about five feet over his head. There was a narrow ring of windows, just between the top of the shelved walls and the dome, which let dusty light pour down into the room, and Harry could make out the shadowy forms of squashy armchairs and small reading tables here and there.  
  
Harry was shocked out of his reverie by Draco's amused voice in his ear. "You still there, Potter?"  
  
"I think so," came Harry's unintelligent reply. He shook his head and then said more reasonably, "No wonder you're such a cocky bastard. This library is even bigger than Hogwarts'."  
  
Malfoy's bright laugh tinkled down the line, and he asked teasingly, "Are you finally admitting that my pride is entirely entitled? Because it is, of course."  
  
"Yes, Malfoy," Harry agreed wryly, "you have every right to be the insufferable, cocky bastard that you are." He wandered among the shelves, looking at the titles emblazoned on the hide-covered books, and remembered to ask, "So what's with the mobiles?"  
  
"Ahh, yes," Malfoy said in an avoiding sort of tone. "The mobiles. I have quite a few, actually. Not as many as I have books, of course."  
  
"And why, Malfoy? Why do you have muggle mobiles? And why do they even work here? I thought magic interfered with muggle technology."  
  
This last question, at least, Malfoy seemed happy to explain. He corrected Harry, " _High_ levels of magic interfere with muggle technology. So, Hogwarts, for example. Electronics don't work in Hogwarts because there are a couple hundred wizards and witches living there and casting spells all the day long. There are also a shocking number of wards, protections, spells and charms on the castle itself, which would also interfere. This Manor, on the other hand, has had most its magical bits stripped away--thanks to most of the magical bits having been rather Dark magic--and there are only the three of us here, and of the three of us, Merry is the only one actively using magic. There is hardly enough magical interference to bungle up a couple of mobile phones."  
  
"But wait..." Harry said thoughtfully, thinking of another logistic problem. "How do you get a signal here? I thought mobiles don't work out in the country, and you're ages from the nearest village even."  
  
Draco chuckled wickedly. "Never underestimate the power of money, Potter."  
  
Harry rolled his eyes, though Malfoy couldn't see it, of course. He backed out of the library, knowing that there was no way he could see everything it had to offer in one whole day, let alone in just an afternoon. Walking back down the corridor, he headed back to the stairs and asked once more, "So why the mobiles?"  
  
Malfoy took a moment to answer, then suggested half-heartedly, "I like playing the games?"  
  
Taking the stairs two at a time again, Harry arrived at the second floor landing. He walked back down the green hallway, and said into his mobile, mimicking Draco's tone, "I don't believe you?"  
  
He opened the door to Malfoy's room and the blond craned his head up from his pillows, upon which he'd been reclined. They stared at each other a moment, each still holding his phone, until Harry slowly lowered his hand and snapped the folding phone shut. Draco looked unimpressed with Harry's dramatics and fell back against his pillows tiredly. Harry looked unimpressed with Draco's dramatics and said pointedly, "I thought you needed your sleep, not to gab on the phone all day?"  
  
"Well," Draco quickly jibed, "now that you're back again, I won't need to, as you put it, 'gab on the phone.'"  
  
Harry scoffed and walked over to fling himself upon the foot of Draco's bed. "You know," he said, poking at Draco's feet beneath the covers and causing the other man to squirm and scold him, "I have a theory. I think that this is all divine retribution."  
  
Draco looked at him warily and asked, "What all is?"  
  
"This!" Harry waved his hand emphatically at Draco and his box of tissues. "You! Being sick! After all, it's only fair that you should get to be miserable after you got me drunk and made me so miserable."  
  
Rolling his eyes, Draco agreed, "Yes, Potter. As always, you are the source of all my ills and misfortunes. You utter centre of the universe, you."  
  
Choosing to ignore this snide remark, Harry continued on with his original questions. "So the phones--and the television--and the football--all of this muggle fascination is...what exactly? A hobby? Guilt? Morbid curiosity?"  
  
"Wouldn't you like to know?" The blond smiled cryptically, until Harry grabbed him by the toes and squeezed painfully. He yelped, " _Jeez-us!_ You little wanker-"  
  
"Ah-ha!" Harry interrupted him to crow, "'Jesus!' What wizard says 'Jesus!'"  
  
"And who in their right mind says, 'Ah-ha?'" Draco pointed out.  
  
Harry chose to ignore this. "What sort of wizard even knows who Jesus was?"  
  
Malfoy looked at him blankly and asked, "What, is a 'jesus' a person?" Harry looked gobsmacked and Draco laughed, "Oh, Potter, you are gullible. Yes, even wizards know about Christianity--it has been going on for a couple thousand years now, after all. And it was the Christians who loved to set us up on nice flammable stacks of wood, you'll recall."  
  
He was still grinning at he admitted, "You're probably right, though, that it's not an expletive that most wizards use. I'm willing to concede it to the fact that I watch too much television."  
  
"But _why?_ " Harry asked in a bewildered tone of voice. Draco stared into those curious green eyes and his face grew serious. He opened his mouth, as if wanting to say something, but nothing came out. He searched Harry's face for several long seconds, and then something in his eyes seemed to go out, and he said in a light, twisted tone, "You're right. It's just a hobby. Soon I'll be exchanging muggle stories with Arthur Weasley."  
  
He picked up the phone on his duvet, and ran his fingers over it familiarly. He flipped it open and told Harry in a confiding tone, "I really am very good with the games, though."  



	10. In Which There Is Potion Brewing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Black sheep is a derogatory colloquialism in the English language meaning an outsider or one who is different in a way which others disapprove of. This can be someone who has been shunned by others, or one who has chosen to be an outsider, due to actions and aims that separate them from the rest of the people or 'flock.'"

**Chapter Ten**  
_In Which There Is Potion Brewing_  
  
FOR A TIME, ALL SERIOUS conversation was forgotten. The two men lay sprawled across Malfoy's ridiculously large bed, with Harry across the foot of the bed and Draco reclining under the covers. Harry was trying to beat Malfoy's high score on a game on the mobile. It seemed deceptively simple--all he had to do was collect jewels without falling off the path and into the (fatal) lava pits--and yet he kept on killing his character with shocking alacrity. Draco lay sniffling and nibbling on the apple slices he'd made Merry bring him.  
  
Harry watched the words 'Game Over' flash across the mobile's screen yet again and asked distractedly, "How do you pay for all these phones?"  
  
Draco popped another slice of apple into his mouth and mumbled, "With my body." Harry's eyes shot up to stare at the blond. Draco rolled his own grey eyes and chided Harry, "With money, of course, you daft git. Cash. Quid. Bank notes." He eyed the remaining slice of apple on his plate and explained, "The phones are all top-ups. No sense in having pesky monthly charges which would require mailing addresses, credit cards, and all sorts of bothersome things. Whenever I get a new model, I top it up for a couple hundred pounds and that normally lasts me until I get bored and buy an even newer one." He nodded toward the phone in Harry's hand. "That was my most recent purchase, until this little gem," he beamed at the Sony Ericsson in his hand. "It should still have something over a hundred pounds on it, so you should be set for a while."  
  
"So you're really just giving me a mobile phone? _Crap._ " The last outburst had less to do with the gift and more to do with the fact that he had just got another 'Game Over.'  
  
Draco shrugged and picked up the last apple slice. "Why not? What do I need with it, since I have newer, prettier and better phone?" He grinned, but Harry wasn't looking up at him. He sniffled and then chanced upon a brilliant idea, sparked to life by his still running nose. "Har-ry," he started cajolingly and Harry looked up at him in alarm. "Make me a Pepper-Up Potion?"  
  
"Is that all?" Harry asked in a snappy-yet-relieved tone of voice. Then he blinked and said stupidly, "Wait--what?"  
  
Clutching a tissue to his red nose, Draco continued in the same disturbing, wheedling tone of voice, "Make me a Pepper-Up Potion. Then I'll be better in a jiffy and we can go drink."  
  
Harry's eyes nearly crossed at the thought of drinking with Malfoy again. He suggested, "How about I just give you some Muggle cold medicine and, hey, it's got alcohol in it, so then we don't have to drink."  
  
Draco seriously considered the idea for a moment. "It's got alcohol in it, you say?" But he frowned then, and said, "But I'm sure it can't be as good as my alcohol. And besides, I assume that it would not instantly cure my cold like a proper potion?"  
  
"Well, nooo..." Harry admitted unenthusiastically. "But if I make you a potion, it might be less of an instant cure and more of an instant death." He looked at the blond doubtfully and asked, "You _do_ recall Potions class together, don't you?"  
  
"A Pepper-Up Potion is a third-year task, Potter! Even you couldn't be that ba-" Draco broke off and looked back at Harry with the same doubtful expression he'd just been on the receiving end of. "Ah, but you really _could_ be that bad, couldn't you?"  
  
Harry had the grace to at least look a bit sheepish. Draco frowned mightily and thought for several long moments. Finally he declared, "Well, there's no help for it, then. I'll just have to supervise you. House elves are rubbish at potions and unless you want to Floo to Diagon Alley-" he watched as Harry's face turned white, "-or pop over to Hogwarts-" this time it turned green, "then we're stuck with botching it up together here." Harry's face was still pasty and, as Draco had suspected, there was no longer even a whisper of protest. "Great," he said in a satisfied tone, "that's settled then."  
  
  
  
  
"No, no, no! It's supposed to be simmering! I don't think you've even got it to room temperature." Draco's cheerful tone cut over the quiet crackle and pop of Wizarding fire.  
  
"You're getting far too much amusement out of this," Harry said darkly, as he flicked his wand at the blue flames and they brightened a bit.  
  
Draco flopped back against his pile of pillows and said mildly, "Hey, you can hardly blame me for the fact that you haven't brewed a potion since you left school." He smirked, feeling as self-satisfied gloating now in his own bedroom as he ever had in the Hogwarts' potion dungeon. He had instructed Merry to set up a table and all the necessary potions ingredients right here in his room, so that he didn't have to bother getting out of bed in order to harass Harry. And he'd had the house-elf get the old copy of his third year potions textbook from the library, since Harry had said he 'wasn't quite sure he remembered the exact measurements'--which was obviously his way of saying that he had no flipping clue how to make a Pepper-Up Potion any more, other than the fact it might very well include pepper.  
  
So far the brewing had commenced without major disaster. That hadn't stopped Draco from nit-picking every little thing Harry did, of course. The idiot really was hopeless at potions--especially now, six years out of practice.  
  
Still, Draco had been keeping enough of an eye on things that he was quite confident that the steaming red syrup Harry finally handed him would not kill him and so he drank it down without any real hesitation. Almost immediately, his eyes ground shut, tearing up from the pepper, as he felt the half-remembered rush of the potion. It was as if his sinuses were being blasted clean with scalding steam. His throat burnt, but in a good way, like after taking the first, impatient swig of really _good_ coffee, and the potion's heat chased his own fever away.  
  
Harry watched in curious amusement as steam poured out through Malfoy's silky blond hair and his usual calm, pale face scrunched up into a red, tear-streaked mess. After several moments, Draco's eyes popped up, still filled with tears but sparkling with good humour. "Woah!" he gasped, "I'd nearly forgotten..." He scrubbed at his face with the sleeves of his pyjama top and then grinned cheekily at Harry. "Brilliant, Potter. Just brilliant. And now that I feel all better, we can drink until we feel all worse again!"  
  
"Err..." Harry's eyebrows furrowed low over his eyes. "You do remember our conversation of the other night? In the bathroom?"  
  
Draco's face was still full of open amusement and he asked, "You mean the one about me being an alcoholic?"  
  
"Well, er, yes." Harry looked a bit alarmed again. "That's the one." He gnawed on the inside of his lip for a moment then said, "Don't you think it might-"  
  
"Look," Draco said quickly, cutting him off. "What's the problem with me drinking at home, safely and securely? Like I've said, I'm not hurting anyone else. I'm just trying to have a good time."  
  
Harry still felt uncomfortable about the idea, but only said, "Well, I'm not drinking any more alcohol with you."  
  
"Fine, fine," Draco said easily, as he pushed himself out of his wide bed. He was still wearing his pyjamas, but picked up his housecoat, earlier abandoned on an empty chaise, and pulled it back on. " _You_ ," he said pointedly, "may have whatever you'd like to drink." And he walked out of the room, a secret little smile on his face.  
  
Harry quickly hurried after him and asked, "Where...?"  
  
"'Where are we going?'" Draco supplied for him, glancing back over his shoulder. "To my favourite drawing room."  
  
Harry muttered something that sounded like, "Of course you would have more than _one_ drawing room." But he followed Draco's labyrinthine path through the huge manor house, until they arrived in a set of rooms he hadn't yet seen.  
  
The drawing room was, like most of the house, surprisingly warm and cosy. One wall was covered in yet more bookshelves, and the adjacent wall held a great fireplace, in which a steady fire was burning merrily. There was a sofa and a settee arranged before the fire, and two armchairs around them. In the far corner was a small pianoforte, which looked like a toy when compared to the grand piano in the white room and seemed to be there for mostly decorative purposes.  
  
Harry asked a bit cheekily, "Where's your television, then?"  
  
"In the television room, of course," Draco said airily. Then he bellowed for Merry again, causing Harry to jump in surprise. The house elf appeared almost immediately and looked at Malfoy with wary and silent expectation.  
  
Draco ordered quickly, "We'll be taking our dinner in winter dining room. We shall have beef bourguignon and the appropriate accoutrements, I think. It will be served at," he consulted the clock on the mantle, "seven o'clock."  
  
And then he waved the house elf off with a dismissive hand. The small creature disappeared without a single nod. Harry glanced at the clock curiously and asked, "At seven? That's less than a half-hour from now. Much less. Can he really prepare a dinner that quickly?"  
  
"Oh, of course," Draco said, throwing himself down on the settee. He warned Harry, "Never underestimate a house elf's magic. It's something altogether different from a wizard's, but no less powerful." Then he grinned and said, "How else do you think he could keep this whole estate running on his own?"  
  
Harry couldn't argue with that, and so he took his own seat on the edge of the sofa. He was still looking around the room curiously. The walls were a very dark colour, which could have been brown or red or even green--they were too dim in the low firelight to tell. And there was something curious about the books on the wall. He stared at them blankly for a moment before he realised that they had no titles. He squinted at them to be sure, but there were no markings on the spines. Draco noticed his attention and raised an eyebrow. "They're magic, of course," he said. "They are connected to the library. If you ask for any subject, the books pertaining to it in the library will be duplicated in these books. It can save you a lot of trips. I used to do a lot of school work in this drawing room, over the holidays."  
  
Harry stood up again and walked closer to the wall of blank books to peer at them curiously. He pulled one of the many out and saw that there was no writing on its face either. Letting it fall open and flipping through pages confirmed that the whole thing was empty. He asked, "How does it work?"  
  
"Magic," Draco said flatly. "A searching spell first, of course, to find the correct books. That's combined with a complex set of linking spells, copying charms and the like. It doesn't actually transport the books for the library, only allows you to read them, temporarily, within the blank models, like you are now holding."  
  
"Is there any way that someone else can tell what books you have copied in here? If they were in the library at the time, for example."  
  
Draco grinned. It was obvious Harry was thinking of the same sorts of things that had occurred to him as a child--that he could read all of his father's extensive collection without anyone being the wiser. "From all I know, there would be no way for them to tell, no obvious signs, without them performing quite extensive spellwork themselves."  
  
He watched Harry standing there with an empty book in his hands and said in an odd voice, "The spell was ' _revolvo_ ,' followed by the topic you are interested in."  
  
Harry glanced toward him questioningly and then tried it for himself, " _Revolvo_ Dark magic." There was a strange sort of light show, as glinting titles were suddenly traced onto the spines of the formerly empty books filling the shelves. But when the lights all died, Harry was surprised to realise how few books had appeared. More than two thirds of the shelves still held blank titles. Draco's voice came from behind him, dry and knowing, "Most the really good books on Dark magic were confiscated by the Ministry, of course. These are all the rather mundane ones that they left, which you could just as easily buy at Flourish and Blotts."  
  
Harry nodded slowly and looked down at the book in his own hands. It now read, "A Shadowed Isle: The History of the Dark Arts in Britain." Quite mundane, indeed. He replaced it on the shelf and went back to his seat on the sofa. He noticed Draco turning to the small, spindly table that was placed between their two seats. On it was an elaborate silver decanter set. In the centre was an aged looking silver bottle, covered with scrolling baroque designs. The four crystal goblets that surrounded it looked quite plain in comparison. Draco poured himself a measure of something that looked suspiciously like red wine and then tipped the bottle over another glass, but this time the liquid came out a familiar cloudy orange.  
  
Harry picked up the glass and sniffed it, before spluttering, "P-pumpkin juice?! But how? Or why?" He looked again between his own glass and Draco's, which were quite clearly different, despite having come from the same bottle.  
  
Draco caressed the bottle in his hand fondly, smiling down at it like a doting parent. "This little darling," he told Harry, "is one of my most prised possessions. It will pour any drink that the drinker desires. It never runs empty and there's nothing it can't make. It is the best of magic."  
  
He looked at Harry a bit scornfully. "I wouldn't have guessed pumpkin juice for you, though. You actually like drinking the stuff that much?"  
  
Harry was still goggling at the glass in his hand and said in a dazed voice, "I guess so. I mean, it's just very nostalgic. I guess I must have somehow thought of it, being back in a magical place again..." He lifted the glass to his lips cautiously and took a small sip, then a much larger one. He sighed happily. It was just as he remembered, just as it had been at all those meals in the Great Hall, all those Halloween Feasts and Christmas Dinners.  
  
Draco watched him drink with a satisfied glint in his eyes. He took a long draught from his own glass, and was rewarded with the fine aroma of a rather full-bodied merlot. It ought to go well with dinner.  
  
He glanced at the clock and suggested, "Why don't we move to the dining room?"  
  
Harry was suddenly stuck by the incongruity of Draco Malfoy--the Wizarding world's most infamous black sheep; the elegant, smooth, Slytherin king of their Hogwarts day; the former Death Eater turned traitor--standing in a firelit drawing room, wearing a housecoat and clutching a glass of wine and a silver decanter, inviting him to dine. He sniggered but followed Draco's lead into the adjoining dining room, though he wouldn't explain why he was laughing, despite Malfoy's curiosity.  
  
They had come into a small, intimate dining room. It held a rectangular dinner table, sized to seat eight, but only two places were set that evening. Harry sat himself down on one side, placing his goblet of pumpkin juice next to the fine setting of engraved silver and bone china. Draco sat down opposite him and draped his napkin in his lap, leading Harry to mimic him and do the same.  
  
Despite Merry's obvious reservations towards his master, it was clear that he still couldn't entirely deny his inclination to serve, because only moments after they sat themselves at the table, the first course--a bowl of steaming onion soup and crunchy crusts of bread--appeared in front of both men. Harry sighed as he thought of his own usually empty pantry and then picked up the soup spoon on his right. Scooping up a spoonful of the perfectly clear soup, he blew on it cautiously and said, "So this is how you live every day?"  
  
Draco grinned and picked up his own soup spoon. "More or less."  
  
Harry shook his head disbelievingly and then swallowed down his delicate soup. It was still quite hot but delicious. He glanced around the room again, noticing the fresh flower arrangement at the end opposite to the door they had entered by and the candelabra on the walls. They lived in completely different worlds. It wasn't just that Malfoy's world was magical--Malfoy's life was unlike anything Harry had ever experienced, at Hogwarts, in the Wizarding world, or anywhere. No wonder he'd always heard Malfoy complaining about Hogwarts' living standards when they'd both been boys.  
  
The two men finished their soup in near silence and as soon as they had set down their spoons, their bowls disappeared from in front of them, only to be immediately followed by the main course. Now the china plate in front of Harry was nearly overflowing with food. There was a sea of beef bourguignon, with a garnish of fried mushrooms, pearl onions and bacon. This was hedged in by a great mound of fluffy, buttery mashed potatoes and a pile of crisp-looking green beans.  
  
Draco smirked a bit, to see Harry staring so openly at the food in front of him. Then he picked up his own fork and began to eat. Harry soon followed suite and with such enthusiasm that his plate was empty again within five minutes. He slouched against his high-backed chair and groaned, rubbing his stomach ruefully. He admitted to Draco, "I don't think I've ate that well in years. It's a wonder that you don't weigh twenty stone."  
  
Draco chuckled, still picking away at his meal, since he had none of Harry's deprived hunger. He sipped at his wine and gestured for Harry to finish his own glass of pumpkin juice, then he filled his guest's glass again with the charmed decanter. Still leaning back in his chair with a satiated smile, Harry sipped his pumpkin juice and watched Draco sedately finish his meal. He asked curiously, "Do you often have guests here?"  
  
Plucking his napkin from his lap, Draco dabbed at his mouth before answering, "No, never." He tossed his napkin on the table and then said to the room at large--Harry assumed that Merry must be able to hear everything--"We'll take dessert in the drawing room." He picked up his goblet again and they retired back to the next room. The fire was still glowing in the dim room, but Harry did not first notice what Draco did: a new tray had appeared, on top of the small piano. Draco went and sat at the piano bench, setting his glass on top of the instrument's glossy top, next to the tray of fruit and cheese and biscuits.  
  
Harry leaned against the piano, taking another sip from his pumpkin juice. He felt very oddly relaxed, for some reason. He eyed the dessert plate, but knew he couldn't possibly eat anything more just yet. He was still bursting full from dinner and so to pass the time, he suggested, "Play something."  
  
Draco looked at the small piano in front of him almost in surprise. "On this thing?" he asked incredulously. He lifted the cover and let his right hand play several notes experimentally. Harry gave a curious little hum and so he proceeded to play several chords, still feeling out the unfamiliar piano. He had once used it, of course, when he had been a boy. It had been his mother's, in fact--she'd been the one who had forced him to learn. But he'd had his grand piano for so long that he was quite unused to the much smaller keyboard. He let his hands trip unconsciously across the keys as he tried to think of something fitting to play.  
  
Harry watched in a mild sort of awe as the blond sat at the piano bench, his left hand picking out a tune--mindlessly, or so it seemed--as he reached for his wine glass with his right. After another deep draught of wine, he stopped his ambling fingers and sat up straight, stretching the fingers of both his hands above the keys for a moment, before resting just his fingertips on the ivory with a lightness and grace that must only come with practice. His bony wrists described sharp angles in the flickering light and then his right hand lifted briefly and came down again, this time with a chiming note. His fingers danced gracefully over the keys in slow, almost painful seduction, caressing the keys and drawing out their poignant tones. It was quite unlike anything Harry had ever seen before.  
  
The music filled the small room with its haunting strains. Harry felt it wrap around him and at the same time echo through him. He'd never heard live music performed before. Not music like this at any rate. He focussed upon Malfoy again, whose eyes had nearly fallen shut as he leaned into the music. His hands skipped over the keys with an ease that seemed almost unnatural to Harry, his touch seeming impossibly light on the keys, yet bringing forth such powerful and complex sounds that it was hard to believe they were all coming from the pressure of his thin fingers and a set of ivory keys. Watching the white fingers dance across the keyboard, Harry was reminded of seeing those same fingers, next to his own, reaching out for a Golden Snitch.  
  
The memory shook him for some reason and, picking up his goblet, he moved back to the sofa and sat down again. The music suddenly broke off and he spun around, surprised to find the room kept spinning for a moment longer than he did. Draco had turned to look at him. "Don't stop," he blurted out awkwardly and Malfoy looked at him questioningly, but turned back to the piano, resuming his song as if there had been no interruption. But the song had shifted to a happier tone.  
  
Harry continued to drink deeply of his pumpkin juice, as he sat in his cocoon of music. Remembering playing Quidditch with Malfoy, so much more than anything else they had talked about in the last several days, made Harry suddenly aware that this was _Malfoy_ whom he was dining with, that this was _Lucius Malfoy_ 's house that he was sitting in right now. Perhaps Lucius had sat in this very chair, plotting how to give Tom Riddle's diary to Ginny, or making plans to invade the Department of Mysteries.  
  
And the strangest thing of all was that it didn't make him want to immediately crawl out of his skin. Despite all that, he was quite comfortable and almost, well, _happy_ , sitting there and drinking pumpkin juice while listening to Draco Malfoy play piano, with the warm glow of good food still in his stomach and a soft sofa beneath him.  
  
The piano music had faded again, silence retaking the room. Harry waited in stillness, hoping that Draco would continue to play. His wish was granted with a sudden furious rush of music. Harry turned quickly in his seat, to see Draco's fingers flying across the keyboard faster than he would have thought possible. He'd been able to guess that Draco must be good at piano, but surely this was too much? Normal people mustn't be able to play like this, or so Harry tried to reassure himself, since he couldn't even pick out middle C on a keyboard. Still half turned around on the sofa, Harry rested his chin on the its squashy back and watched the other man play, nearly hypnotised. Malfoy's hands were moving so quickly that they actually seemed to _blur_. As he watched, Harry began to realise the complete and absolute knowledge such playing must require--Malfoy's hands flew over the keys faster than thought; such movement had to be so well trained that it became instinctual.  
  
When at last those impossible hands came to a stop again, Harry found that he'd been holding his breath and let it out in a whoosh. To mask his reaction, he took a huge swig from his glass of pumpkin juice and then spluttered, choking on the juice and letting it dribble down his chin. Draco chose this moment to turn around and look at Harry with an indescribable expression on his face. "Potter..." he started, in a serious tone of voice, "there's something I've been meaning to tell you..."  
  
Harry blinked owlishly, once again finding his body's reaction a bit odd. After several long seconds of silence, he asked, "What is it?"  
  
"Well, you see..." Draco looked away for a moment. "I've not been entirely honest with you." His grey eyes turned back and bore into Harry's, as he said earnestly, "What I mean to say is...that's not pumpkin juice you're drinking."  
  
Harry blinked again. His brain seemed a bit fuzzy and Malfoy's words weren't making any sense to him. "What?"  
  
Now Draco grinned. "You see, that decanter--well, I told you it could make any drink. What I didn't tell you is that everything it makes is alcoholic. Even if you just wanted water, it would come out alcoholic. Quite alcoholic. Whether you taste it or not." Harry's dumb expression was beginning to dawn with realisation and Draco summed himself up cheerily, "So you are actually a bit trashed right now, I'd say."  
  
Harry looked suspiciously at the drink in his hand and protested, "But I--but that's..." He managed to glare at Malfoy quite hatefully and said, "I don't think that's very gentlemanly."  
  
This comment sent Draco into peals of laughter and, as he wiped at his eyes, he repeated, "'Gentlemanly'?! Oh, dear, Potter, call the peers! Better yet, challenge me to a duel, why don't you, for impugning your honour with my 'ungentlemanly' conduct!" He burst into laughter again and now Harry was beginning to recognise that Draco was a couple of sheets to the wind as well. He flopped back onto his sofa sulkily, the remaining not-pumpkin juice sloshing about in his glass.  
  
He ought to apparate back home that moment, he thought. But he didn't just yet. He heard Draco get up from the piano bench and come towards the fire, taking his own seat again on the settee. He shoved the dessert tray, which he had apparently picked up from the piano top, in front of Harry's flushed face. "Cheese?" he offered blandly.  
  
Harry continued to pout for a moment and Draco began to move the tray away, so Harry gave up on his sulk and shot one hand out to grab a wedge of brie from the plate. Draco laughed again and took a piece of stilton and some grapes for himself. The silence in the room seemed heavy, after the rich tapestry of music that Harry had been wrapped up in before. He nibbled on his brie.  
  
"So..." Malfoy's voice came from behind him and Harry resolutely remained facing the other direction. He heard the rustling sounds of movement and guessed that Malfoy had also laid down on his settee.  
  
"You don't drink," Draco mused, "excepting of course the times I trick you into it." Harry could hear the smile in the other man's voice and sneered at the opposite wall, though of course Draco couldn't see it.  
  
"You don't take part in Wizarding life," he continued, knowing from the _Daily Prophet_ that Harry Potter was considered, on the whole, to be missing. "Your best friend is a vegetable, and so you no longer make mooneyes at his sister."  
  
Harry couldn't help snorting derisively at Draco's blunt summation of the situation. "You don't," the quiet voice continued, "socialise with anyone in your village. And, in fact," he concluded, "your most frequent visitor appears to be your former schoolboy rival."  
  
Draco twisted his head about to gaze at the back of Harry's dark head. He asked, "Does that about sum it up?"  
  
Harry frowned but there wasn't much to deny. He looked at the not-pumpkin juice in his hand. Then Draco asked, "So what happened between you and Granger? Did she resent what happened to the great ginger lout?"  
  
Sucking in a sudden gasp, Harry felt his chest clench painfully. "I assume," he said in a strangled voice, "that this is one of your questions?"  
  
"Well," Draco reasoned, "although you did impose yourself uninvited, you did also make me the potion to cure my cold, so--yes, I'd say we're even and the game is back on."  
  
Harry sighed. "Then I have no choice, do I?" He took a sip of his drink, which still tasted like perfectly innocent pumpkin juice. "Hermione..." He paused and swallowed, surprised at the feeling of those syllables rolling off his tongue. Another name that he hadn't spoken in years. "It happened before Ron and I went for the second to last horcrux. That's why the two of us went alone for the snake, and why we planned so poorly. And perhaps that's why what happened to Ron did happen. Maybe if Hermione had still been around, he would still be okay."  
  
He realised he was saying unnecessary things and started again, "When we went to get Hufflepuff's cup, just before the snake, everything went pear shaped. We had planned it all and everything seemed fine at first. But then we got split up, Ron and I became separated from Hermione. We had decided beforehand that if anything happened, if we got lost or attacked, we would all apparate away, back to a set place. Ron and I apparated back, but Hermione didn't come. We waited--for what seemed like forever. But really I guess it couldn't have been much more than a half hour. Finally Ron couldn't stand waiting anymore and apparated again, back to where we'd been searching for the cup. I had no choice but to follow him--what if I lost them both?  
  
"Together we explored the ruins where we had lost Hermione. After a couple of hours, we finally found her in a hidden room. Of course she had found it much quicker than us, being so clever. But by the time we got there..." Harry wet his lips and made himself continue. "We never knew what exactly happened to her. She was lying on the floor, unconscious, and the cup nearby. We didn't yet know if anything was wrong, but we wrapped up the cup and, carrying Hermione between us, apparated away again."  
  
The fire crackled and hissed quietly. "When she did finally wake up, the next day, she had no memory of what had happened to her in the ruins. But she had no memory of anything else, either. She didn't remember who either of us were, or who she herself was. She didn't remember about our search for the Horcruxes, about Voldemort, or even Hogwarts." He still remembered her lonely face, left alone at their safe house. He said guiltily, "We didn't know what to do with her. We couldn't send her back to her parents like that. And Hogwarts, as you know, was already unsafe for anyone. St Mungo's had been closed for months. We didn't know what else to do, so we just kept her with us. We tried to explain what we were about, and she was still able to perform magic, but...but I don't think she ever really believed or understood any of it."  
  
Harry said nothing for several seconds and so Draco asked mildly, "What happened to her after the war, then? After you killed Voldemort?"  
  
The bare words hung in the air between them and Harry repeated ruefully, "After I killed Voldemort... That's right, but it was actually before I killed Voldemort. I knew, going after him, what would happen. If I won, then Hogwarts would be safe again for them both. If I lost, then it wouldn't matter where they were, they would surely die. And so I sent them to Hogwarts, before I left to hunt Voldemort. McGonagall got Ron back to his family; I know that much from Ginny. I don't really know what she did for Hermione."  
  
Draco sipped his wine, his mind ticking away smoothly, oiled by alcohol. He remembered reading something in the _Daily Prophet_ about Granger, a couple of years ago--he was quite sure of it. He simply hadn't cared at the time. He said suddenly, "Have you ever been to Glastonbury, Potter?"  
  
"What?" Harry asked in surprise. "Well, no--no, I haven't."  
  
"That settles it then."  
  
"Settles what?" Harry asked, entirely bewildered.  
  
Draco sat up and set the tray of cheeses on the settee's cushioned seat. He stood up and moved to stand over Harry, explaining, "We're going to Glastonbury tomorrow. I hear they have this massive hill, with a tower on top. We'll climb it, and very likely realise how out of form we both are." He forced Harry up from the sofa and into a standing position. Pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his dressing robe, he quickly piled a small mound of the dessert offerings onto the kerchief and tied the corners with a knot, forming a small bag. This he shoved in Harry's hand, as he said, "You apparate off home. Enjoy your dessert and get some sleep, because I will have no mercy for you tomorrow if you are hung over or otherwise try to dampen my amusement."  
  
Harry's eyes were wide and confused. He asked suspiciously, "Are you trying to get rid of me?"  
  
"Not at all," Draco said breezily, "I'm just ensuring that you will be up to our adventure tomorrow. I will be at your place at eleven. Be ready. Oh, and we'll take your car." He waved his hands at Harry and repeated, "Now, off with you!"  
  
Harry shook his head disbelievingly, but pulled out his wand and apparated away obligingly. As soon as he was gone, Draco bellowed out for Merry, "Where are you, you miserable little spy? I'm going to need you to post a letter!"  



	11. In Which There Is A Tor

**Chapter Eleven**  
_In Which There Is A Tor_

  
THE NEXT MORNING FOUND HARRY waiting a bit tensely on his couch, his watch on the coffee table in front of him, next to his keys and easily visible. He couldn't help laughing at himself a little. Of course he didn't need to do whatever Malfoy had told him to do, but then what else would he do with his day? Stay around his house, wasting time cleaning and watching telly? He wouldn't admit it, not to himself or to Malfoy, but days with the blond bastard were far more interesting than the days without.  
  
He got up again from the couch, as he had several times already. Walking back into his small kitchen, he pulled out a canister of ground coffee. After he measured out several scoops of freshly ground coffee into a cafetière, he filled his electric kettle with water and plugged it in, flicking the switch on its side. The water immediately began hissing, as the coils inside the kettle sprang to life. He waited for the tell-tale bubbling of the water boiling and leaned on his countertop. His eyes fell shut.  
  
And why shouldn't he go out? Why shouldn't he enjoy himself, even if it was with Malfoy, of all people? What else was he doing with his life? He had begun to think--for perhaps the first time--about the fact that he was twenty-three years old and hadn't done _anything_. Well, he _had_ saved the world a couple of times, to be fair. But, to be honest, he didn't even feel like the same person anymore. Winning the Triwizard Tourney, invading the Department of Mysteries, even hunting for Horcruxes--it was all of it in a past so distant and so removed from his current life that he could almost believe that it had all been some dream. _That_ Harry had done his job. He'd saved the world and he'd done his penance for his friends. And he'd disappeared, along with the memories, into the past.  
  
Of course, Malfoy was glaring proof that the past had been real. But the surprising fact was that--though he brought back Harry's past with him--Malfoy made Harry look at the present. Perhaps it was because Malfoy himself was wasting away his life in such a similar way. They were both of them useless over-grown children, living off inherited money and doing nothing with their lives. Neither of them had finished school, and obviously they hadn't gone on to any higher education. They'd never had jobs--world saviour and evil minion didn't really fit on one's CV. They didn't do anything. Other than drink, in Malfoy's case.  
  
_Inside I've long been dead. I'm just putting in my time and trying to enjoy myself, until my body realises it, too._  
  
That's what Malfoy had said to him. And Harry had realised that he didn't want to live like that. He didn't want to be like Malfoy.  
  
Harry's birthday had passed just a few months before. He was twenty-three years old. Was he still going to be living in this house, alone and obsessively cleaning, when he was thirty-three? Forty-three? Ninety-three?  
  
The loud _thunk_ of the kettle shutting itself off jolted him out of his reverie. Harry blinked at the appliance and realised that his water had reached boiling. He picked the kettle up and poured the steaming water into the cafetière, the bitter smell of coffee immediately blossoming in his face. He slowly depressed the plunger on the top of the press, as he heard the expected roar of a motorbike grow closer and then stop in front of his house. Malfoy stomped up the front lane and let himself in the front door without even the pretence of a knock. "Ready?" he called from the entrance-way, with an annoying sense of familiarity.  
  
Harry was tempted to be surly, but there hardly seemed any logical reason why he should be. Instead, after a moment's hesitation, he simply called back, "Not quite."  
  
Draco stepped out of his shoes for the moment and poked his head around the doorway to the living room, looking across it towards Harry in the kitchen. "Well, what's the delay?" he asked, a faint grin hovering about his pale lips. "I did tell you to be ready at eleven."  
  
"I was making coffee," Harry explained awkwardly, still with one hand on top of the press. He suddenly began to ask, "Malfoy, what do you--"  
  
"Ah, ah, ah!" Draco shook his head in a cheerful dismissal, waggling a finger in Harry's direction. Harry blinked in surprise. "I know that tone of voice." There was suddenly a warning in Draco's grey eyes. "No questions now, or we'll never make it out on time. So put your damned coffee in a thermos, bring the list if you insist on pressing questions, and grab your keys. We have the whole drive for you to figure out life, the universe, and everything."  
  
He continued to look expectantly at Harry until the other man began to do as he'd been told. He finished pressing the coffee and pulled out a heavy metal thermos from one of his cupboards. After carefully pouring the steaming liquid into it, he screwed the cap on tightly and tucked it under one arm. He plucked the list off the refrigerator and nearly walked out of the kitchen, before remembering to grab a pen as well. His keys were still on the coffee table in the living room, so he grabbed them and his watch as he headed towards the front door, where Draco was waiting.  
  
When he stopped at the door and tried to fumble his way into his shoes without using his hands, which were both full, he was surprised to have Draco pluck the thermos, paper and pen from his grip. But the blond just continued to look at him in that annoyingly expectant way, as if to say, "You're not hurrying enough. Why aren't you hurrying?"  
  
Slipping his keys into his jacket pocket, Harry bent down to pull his right shoe on properly and Draco opened the door, heading out ahead of him. Harry quickly jammed his left shoe on as well and stumbled out after the blond. He pulled his front door shut behind him and then they were following the path around his small house and towards the back gate, which would lead to his car, parked in its little lane. Draco of course got to the car first and waited impatiently by the passenger's side door, his hands still full with Harry's things. Harry himself quickly stepped around the car and, after unlocking his door, slid in behind the steering wheel. He reached across the car with his left hand, snagging the opposite door's handle and pulling on it sharply, popping the door open for Malfoy.  
  
Draco nudged the door the rest of the way open with the toe of his shoe and then dropped into the passenger seat, letting the thermos and list fall into his lap. His hands now free, he pulled his door shut and fumbled behind himself for a moment for the safety belt. Harry didn't ask any questions, but only reached up for his own safety belt, snapping it into place. He turned the engine over, relieved to find that it was still working all right after their rushed repairs the previous week. Slowly backing the car out onto the main lane, he was hardly surprised to hear Draco humming thoughtfully as he looked at the list in his lap. "You," the blond said reproachfully, "have not been keeping up with your duties as list-master."  
  
He pulled the cap off his pen and made two more careful ticks under Harry's name and one more under 'Ferret.' As he pressed the cap back on the pen, he said regretfully, "I realise now that I answered a whole lot of questions for nothing yesterday." But he glanced at Harry next, as they slowly drove out of the village and towards the A4. "So what was your dire question? And do you know where you're going?"  
  
"I know the general direction, but I'm assuming you'll tell me when we get there," Harry said, with a doubtful look.  
  
Draco shrugged in a not-quite-reassuring way. "And what's your drama, then?"  
  
Harry looked at the road ahead determinedly. "I'm not sure," he said carefully, "that I'd say it's 'drama.' I've just been thinking."  
  
He left it at that for several long moments and finally Draco capitulated and muttered in a voice weary of Harry's leading statements, "Never a good idea. And you've been 'thinking' about...?"  
  
"About my life."  
  
Draco rolled his eyes and asked, "Is there going to be a question in here somewhere, or am I just listening to your drivel because I'm stuck in a car with you?"  
  
Harry shot a quick glare at the blond, but quickly returned his eyes to the road. They were on the expressway now and whizzing through the Wiltshire countryside. "A question, huh...?" He sighed and thought for several minutes. "Is this what you wanted with your life?"  
  
There was a harsh laugh next to him and Harry glanced in Malfoy's direction just in time to see the other man turn away to stare out the window, but not before Harry saw his suspiciously bright eyes. But perhaps he had just imagined the sight, because the next moment, the blond's voice came out perfectly normal, if more bitter and serious than he'd heard it in years. "No," the blond said flatly, "this is not what I wanted."  
  
"What did you want?"  
  
There was a long silence in the car, as Harry flicked his eyes between the road and his passenger, and Draco continued to stare out the opposite window. Finally Draco seemed to rouse himself and flattened the list on his thigh again, uncapping the pen to make two ticks under Harry's name.  
  
"I'm not sure," he started in a more normal voice, "that I ever wanted anything specifically from my life. I was always interested in various things--potion brewing and research, history, curses, spell creation, all manner of magic, really. But I knew that I couldn't actually spend my life doing any of those things. I would be expected to take my place in the Malfoy line and ensure the family's fortune, making shady deals and running things from the shadows, as my father had at the ministry. Perhaps I would have time to keep my interests as hobbies, if I was so lucky." He stared off at the empty hills, nearly seeing a future that had disappeared long ago. "I would have been expected to marry one of the witches from a pureblood family of similar standing and produce another Malfoy heir. I would have lived out my life at the Manor with my parents watching over my every move, until they would finally die, and then I would do the same to my children, until I might finally die."  
  
There was another pause and Harry decided to mention, "Doesn't much sound like you wanted any of this."  
  
Draco shook his head distractedly. "No, sorry. I got sidetracked. But in a way, I suppose I did want it. It was what I was raised to expect and I could expect nothing more. It was safe and predictable and I knew at ten how my life might end at one hundred. But then things began to change. Of course, when Voldemort really came back, everything changed. Whereas before my father had simply trained me in the Dark Arts, hinting at a glorious past, suddenly everything was real and in the present. Dark curses were no longer just to harass Gryffindors with, but were to be used in serious attacks. Then for a while I wanted nothing more than for Voldemort to disappear--for my safe, boring future to come back."  
  
Harry was reminded of how radically different a life Malfoy had come from, compared to Harry's resolutely Muggle upbringing at the hands of the Dursleys.  
  
"Then when my father was arrested, I was forced to take his place." Draco let his head fall back against the car seat and closed his eyes. "You remember sixth year, of course. You suspected what I was up to, even when no one else did. And at that time, I wanted nothing more than to kill Dumbledore." Even now, Harry felt a faint twinge of pain hearing the words, but he didn't interrupt. "If I didn't, Voldemort was going to kill both my mother and me. My life was reduced from years, to months, weeks and sometimes hours. If I could finish the next task. If I could make it through the next mission. If I could make it to my next meeting with Voldemort. And then it became a question of making it _through_ the next meeting with him." Surprisingly, Malfoy's lips curled into a gentle smile, though his eyes were closed to Harry. "But sometimes...  
  
"Sometimes, in the midst of it all, I would dream of a different life. Perhaps one where my family was still together and I had married one of the pureblood cows and got the boring job at the Ministry. Or sometimes one where my father was still gone, but my mother and I lived in the Manor and I took care of everything. Sometimes I would imagine truly fantastical futures--as a Quidditch star or a world famous expert in _something_ , though I never figured out what. Sometimes I dreamt of killing Voldemort, sometimes of killing myself, or even you."  
  
"What did I do?!" Harry asked in a disturbed voice.  
  
Draco grinned and there was a gleam of silver beneath his lids, where his eyes barely peeked through. "Oh, nothing in particular. It was just satisfying." He exhaled heavily. "But what did I want from my life?" He shook his head. "Even now I don't know. And maybe that's why I'm not doing anything with it. I want-" His breath hitched almost imperceptibly and he said thoughtfully, "I think I would want to go back. Back to the way things were. Before."  
  
Harry didn't have to ask when 'before' was. They all had a 'before'--before the war, before Voldemort, before everything went bad.  
  
"I've lost too much."  
  
The words were so soft that Harry wasn't sure he'd heard them correctly. He didn't say anything and they drove on in silence. Finally Draco felt normal enough to point out, "You do know you've used seventeen of your questions. Whereas I still have near the same number _left_."  
  
"Really?" Harry asked, his eyes jumping to the list in Draco's lap. The atmosphere returned to normal and Harry groaned, "Dammit. It's because you always wile things out of me unawares."  
  
"Not my fault you're as dense as a bag of bricks, Potter."  
  
Harry made a faint growling noise in his throat and Draco snickered meanly. Harry said petulantly, "Then ask me something. We've got to get it closer to even."  
  
"What if I don't have anything to ask you?" Draco said bluntly, sizing Harry up with distinctly disinterested grey eyes. He saw Harry's brows beetling together, though, and so he said obligingly, "Fine, fine. I'll think on it." He brightened considerably as an idea occurred to him and he exclaimed, "Tell me how you killed Voldemort!"  
  
Harry nearly swerved off the road. He had gone whiter than even Draco was and his eyes were wide and slightly glazed, which was something that Draco was quite unhappy about, since his life very much depended on Harry's driving at the moment. He quickly took his question back. "Never mind, Potter. Obviously not something you can talk about while driving and I value my whole and unbroken body more than your surely depressive answer, at the moment." He grinned. "Aren't you sorry you told me to ask questions?"  
  
Harry seemed to have got himself back under control and he laughed, breathlessly and unsteadily, but didn't say anything more. Draco was left trying again to come up with questions, only this time trying for ones that wouldn't end up with them crashed into a hillside. Again. It was difficult going, though, since he did so love to ask outrageous questions. Rolling his eyes up to the ceiling, he asked in a bored tone of voice, "Are you a virgin?"  
  
"Am I a _what_?" Harry asked in shock.  
  
"You heard me." Draco said, now settling in against his car door and watching Harry closely. "By your overblown surprise," he said, "I'd have to guess that you most certainly are."  
  
Harry couldn't keep his face from turning red and he blurted out, "Well, I had a bit more to deal with than just pulling girls when we were in school, you know!"  
  
Draco turned his head to give the man a doubting, sidelong look. "And it's been five years since school," he pointed out in an obvious sort of voice.  
  
Harry chewed on the inside of his lip. There was no easy comeback for that. "And you've been pulling every weekend, I'm sure," he growled sarcastically.  
  
"Are you asking if I'm a virgin?"  
  
"I suppose I am!" Harry exclaimed hotly.  
  
" _You_ want to know if _I_ am inexperienced in the carnal pleasures of the flesh?"  
  
"That's what I just asked!" Harry looked at him, a bit disturbed, and muttered, "Though that's certainly not how I would have described it."  
  
Draco's face split into a huge grin, showing off nearly every one of his small white teeth. "Yes. Yes, I am."  
  
Glancing again at his passenger, Harry asked unsurely, "You are? _You_ are?"  
  
Still grinning, Draco waggled his eyebrows. "Hard to believe, isn't it?"  
  
"Well, not because you aren't odious," Harry mumbled resentfully. "I just figured you would have paid someone to do it or something."  
  
Draco continued to stare at him with that shit-eating grin until Harry asked, "What _are_ you smiling like that for?"  
  
"Nice use of the word 'odious,'" Draco said conversationally, his grin not losing a single watt.  
  
Harry tried to focus on the road ahead of him, but could still see those gleaming white teeth, and so he scrunched his eyes shut for the briefest of moments in frustration, then asked, " _What?_ "  
  
Draco grin grew, though it hardly seemed possible. Harry thought he might be able to count the blond's molars, if he hadn't better focus on the road ahead of him. "You," Draco said cheerily, "really want to know why I'm smiling?"  
  
"That's what I asked, wasn't it!" Harry exclaimed in exasperation. "What is with you today..."  
  
Draco uncapped his pen and made a mark under his name for the virgin question. He paused for a moment, then explained sweetly. "I'm smiling like this," he said, as he brought his pen back down to the list, "because you just used up two more of your questions." He decisively made two more ticks under Harry's name. Harry's jaw dropped open.  
  
"One left," Draco told him helpfully, his grin in full blast again.  
  
"But that's--those weren't--you..."  
  
Harry gibbered helplessly until Draco interrupted, "You asked two questions of me, two questions for which I did not volunteer answers but still you pressed me. You get two more ticks." He repeated, just because he enjoyed it, "You have one question remaining, Potter." He leaned in and whispered confidentially, "Might I suggest you make it a good one?"  
  
Harry was turning red again, but this time in anger. He stared fiercely ahead at the road and cursed Malfoy and all of his ferrety kind to the deepest circles of hell. " _Bugger_ ," he spat in a very heartfelt tone of voice, then he turned resentful eyes on Malfoy and asked, "So, what? How am I supposed to talk to you without asking any questions? Or can you even tell me, without counting that question against me?" He paused. "And that one. And... _bugger_."  
  
Draco was sniggering in silent but perfect glee. He absolutely loved driving Harry Potter mad. This was the best entertainment he'd had in years. He offered graciously, though he didn't bother to hide the laughter in his voice, "Fine, fine. I realise our conversations would be quite stilted if you didn't dare say anything. And then I'd get bored. So here's what we'll do--you can still ask questions, as you've always been able to. But unless you specifically say that you want to use your _last_ question, I will not count it against you. Of course, that also means that I am once again perfectly free to lie, hide things, or simply refuse to answer."  
  
"Will you lie?" Harry asked stupidly.  
  
Draco grinned. "No."  
  
Harry paused, then said flatly, "That was a lie, wasn't it?"  
  
Draco kept grinning. "No."  
  
Harry sighed at his own gullibility and said, "I get it." Then he complained, "You have got to stop grinning like that. It makes me want to drive into another hillside. And it just plain gives me gooseflesh. I'm quite sure that it must be written somewhere that Malfoys should not grin like tupenny tarts."  
  
His shoulders actually shaking with laughter, Draco asked, "Do I look like a tupenny tart to you, Potter?"  
  
Harry glared and asked blisteringly, "Are you counting that as one of your questions?"  
  
"No," the blond said brightly. "You think I'd waste my questions on something like that? What kind of a tosser would I have to be to do that?"  
  
"Was _that_ one of your questions, then?"  
  
"No."  
  
Harry watched a road sign go past. They were still about twenty kilometres from Glastonbury. And he couldn't believe he'd used up all his questions but one! He asked tiredly, not expecting much of a response, "So you sure rushed me out in an awkward way last night, eh?"  
  
"Did I?" Draco asked innocently.  
  
"Yes," Harry said witheringly, "you did." He thought of their conversation the night before and recalled what he had told Draco about Hermione, just before the blond had gone all odd and practically pushed him out the door, metaphorically speaking. Something clicked in his mind and he said suspiciously, "You suddenly went all funny when I told you about Hermione and tried to rush me off, when before you'd spent all evening trying to get me pissed."  
  
"Did I really?" Draco asked again, one corner of his mouth twitching.  
  
"It couldn't," Harry asked slowly, "have anything to do with Hermione? Why you suddenly wanted to get rid of me?"  
  
"I don't know what you could mean," Draco said snootily. "Perhaps I just remembered a hot date."  
  
"Since I now know that you haven't had any sex since school--or ever, for that matter--I rather doubt that," Harry said as he rolled his eyes.  
  
"Hmm, that is interesting, isn't it?" Draco leaned his elbow on the window frame and propped his face up on his hand, examining the countryside with that practised bland curiosity.  
  
Harry let a couple of hundred metres go past before he asked, "What could have caused your change in behaviour then?" He hesitated and then asked seriously, "Was it something about Hermione?"  
  
Draco responded in a sing-song voice, "You know I may just lie to you."  
  
"Not if I use my last question."  
  
Draco turned back to look at him with a single eyebrow carefully raised. "Are you sure it's that important? After all, you could use that question to ask anything. Anything in the world that I might possibly know--and I do know a _lot_ of things, Potter--but you want to use it know why I had you leave my house, a perfectly reasonable request, considering that you'd never been invited in the first place and had in fact been told to stay away?"  
  
Before Harry could decide, Draco pointed. "Look, there it is!" Harry jerked his head to the side to see the hill that Draco was pointing at, before it disappeared around the bend. On top was a very distant and isolated tower. "Think it over," Draco said mildly, returning to the question of Harry's last question. "And for now, let's get ourselves to Glastonbury! I want to climb me a tor!"  
  
  
  
  
They drove into the small town of Glastonbury and proceeded to go in nonsensical circles for nearly twenty minutes. They could see the hill, of course, but couldn't seem to get much closer to it on the narrow and often dead-end roads. Eventually Harry found a parking spot that seemed to be within reasonable walking distance of the hill and stopped the car. He opened his door and stepped out into the road, asking unsurely, "So why are we here, again?" He shielded himself from the sun with one hand over his eyes and squinted up at the hill and its barely visible tower.  
  
Draco jumped out of the car as well, the list going into his pocket--just in case. He offered Harry his thermos and then explained, "Don't you know the story of the Glastonbury Tor?"  
  
Harry's face scrunched up questioningly and as they started up a narrow lane between the old houses of Glastonbury, in the general direction of the hillside, Draco gave him a brief history lesson. "This hill, as should be apparent when we get a bit higher, was once an island."  
  
"An _island_?" Harry asked disbelievingly. "Here in the middle of Somerset?"  
  
"Yes, an _island_ ," Draco agree, mocking Harry's tone of voice. "The flat plains surrounding this area are all drained fenland and would have once been under water. That expanse of water would have been spotted here and there by little islands, which would be the odd hill like this one." Harry waited impatiently for the story to actually become interesting, as the incline of their walk slowly increased.  
  
"This particular hill stood out more than all the others, taller and more perfectly shaped. And so Arthur chose it."  
  
This time Harry asked with real curiosity, "Arthur?"  
  
"Arthur, son of Uthur, the once and future king--I'm sure you've heard the tale." Harry rolled his eyes but didn't interrupt again as Draco told him, "This hill is sometimes called the island of Avalon. The original tower on top was said to have been created by Merlin himself, and there are tales that Arthur and his queen were buried at the site of Glastonbury abbey."  
  
"Wait, Merlin..." Harry said thoughtfully, "the wizard Merlin? 'Merlin's beard!' and all that rot?"  
  
Draco shot a disgusted look in Harry's direction, but agreed, "Yes, 'all that rot.' Are there many other Merlins that you know of?"  
  
"Well, no, but that means...if Merlin was real--because he was a real wizard, right?--then that means Arthur and all the rest of them were real, as well?"  
  
They broke free of the old houses and suddenly were standing at the base of the great green hill, towering in front of them and looking much steeper up close than it had from the distance in the car. "Yes," Malfoy said belatedly, staring at the tor, "he very much was."  
  
They could see a path leading around to the other side of the hill and headed towards it. Harry asked, "Was he a muggle?"  
  
"Half-blood," Draco explained, "his mother was a witch. But I don't think he ever had any training, so he couldn't do any more magic than an uncontrolled child can. Occasional bursts, like pulling a sword from a stone, but nothing much."  
  
"And he lived here?" Harry asked, as stared up at the path that stood out against the green grass of the hill. From this angle, they could only see the very top of the tower peeking over the hill's swell. As they started up, he looked around and noticed the broad terraces cut into the hill. They were so huge that he hadn't realised at first that they weren't completely natural, but they seemed to run around the entire mound in a spiral, like one huge path leading up to the tower, and that could hardly be natural.  
  
"Well," Draco's explanation continued, though punctuated now with deep breaths, "he first came here because an enemy had kidnapped his lover. After rescuing her and defeating the bad guy--with a little help from his cousin Merlin, of course--he was apparently quite taken with the place and decided to make a fortress here. Defensively, it was a very good decision."  
  
Both men were breathing a bit hard now, as they passed a halfway marker. It was a steep climb and neither of them had done anything much more strenuous than wrestle with a remote control over the last several years. The wind, which had already been quite blustery, also became stronger the higher they went. Draco found himself raising his voice to keep his words from being immediately snatched away by its gusts.  
  
"A lone fortress, on a nearly unscalable island. He would have been able to see enemies coming from miles away. So with no little help from Merlin, he erected a fortress and watchtower here." The two had to lean into the hill now, as the wind snatched at their clothes and tried to upset them. Draco was half-shouting as he said, "Of course, those structures are long gone. A lot of people have come and gone since then. As far as I seem to recall, this current tower is well under than a thousand years old."  
  
He saw Harry nod and then they both gave up on further communication. The wind had become something wild and it was clear why there was no one else climbing the hill that day. Feeling the wind tugging at him each time he lifted a foot to take another step forward, Draco was silently thankful that--slight though he was--he wasn't any lighter, or he might have simply been blown off the hill. He continued to trudge forward with his head down, his face tucked into his jacket, until he bumped into Harry, who had suddenly stopped in front of him.  
  
His balance upset, Harry lurched to the side, the wind aiding him along. He might have fallen, in which case he would have surely rolled down the entire hill, unable to stop until he would smash into a tree or worse--but Malfoy grabbed him by the back of his jacket and steadied them both. After pausing a moment to catch their breath, they both turned their faces up towards the great tower that loomed right in front of them.  
  
Neither bothered to say a thing, as the wind howling around them was louder than they could easily overcome. Gripping their jackets tightly about themselves, they shuffled up to the tower, fair and dark hair whipping about their heads and into their eyes. Harry stared up at the plain, lone tower in front of him. It had no ornate decorations, but was simply roughly shaped stone, spotted here and there with narrow windows and a hint of turrets at the top. From the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy disappear around the corner, then pop back a moment later, gesturing for Harry to follow him. He reluctantly did and saw that the tower was hollow, a doorway cutting through its opposite sides.  
  
Ducking into hollow inside the tower, little light coming from the small doorways and windows, he stood next to Malfoy and eagerly swallowed the calmer air. The gusts outside were so strong that it had been difficult to breathe--as soon as he had opened his mouth to take a breath, the wind had snatched it away. Harry stared up into the tower. There were no longer any floors left and through the shadowy dark, he could see all the way to the top. Draco was laughing breathlessly next to him and Harry turned to look at him disbelievingly. "What is it _now_?"  
  
Draco turned to meet his dark look with eyes that were bright and alive, and full of laughter. "Don't you feel it?" Harry blinked owlishly and the blond continued, "Amazing! It's like being on the top of the world. It feels like if we were to jump in the air, the wind would simply whisk us away."  
  
"If you jumped into the air, it probably would," Harry muttered, "right into an early grave, when your body came crashing down hundreds of feet to the village below us."  
  
But Draco simply laughed again, carefree, and Harry had to admit that it was a bit fun, in a death-defying sort of way. He stepped back out onto the hilltop and, being slightly unprepared, was nearly rolled over by the wind. Bracing himself against the tower wall for a moment, he managed to straighten himself back up and look out over the countryside. It was remarkably flat and even now it almost looked like an ocean, made of patchwork greens and browns. He could see other, smaller hills in the distance, but otherwise it seemed as if he were, literally, on the top of the world.  
  
The noise was so tremendous he couldn't even hear himself think. All he could do was be there and be alive, and he drank the feeling in eagerly. His skin tingled from the cold wind and his nose and eyes burned. He could feel muscles in his body that he'd forgot he had, as he had to fight to keep himself upright against the gusts. He glanced to his right and saw that Malfoy had taken up his own spot on the other side of the doorway. The crazy blond had his arms spread out as wide as he could fling them, as if he might take flight then and there. His head was thrown back, laughing, though not a sound of it could be heard over the wind, and his hair was plastered back away from his face.  
  
Was this really the same man who described himself as being dead? In that moment, he seemed like the most alive person Harry had ever seen. And maybe it didn't seem so bad to be like Malfoy after all.  
  
Looking down at himself, where his arms were clenched around his body, Harry slowly began to let go. His fingers moved stiffly from the cold and were reluctant to unfurl from where they'd been clenched into his jacket, but they did. Shakily extending his arms out to his sides, he raised them until he was imitating Draco's pose. The wind roared around his body and he gasped. It was like flying. Like the first time he had flown on Buckbeak. Or the last time he'd flown on a broomstick.  
  
A slow smile crept over his face, as Harry stood there letting the wind beat against him. He turned his slitted eyes back to Malfoy and as he looked at the thin blond being buffeted by the wind, he had the strangest feeling that Malfoy really would jump and be whisked away. Stumbling slightly in the wind, he moved closer until he could just reach out and snag the blond by his jacket sleeve. Draco started in surprise and turned to stare at Harry. His eyes were full of some indescribable _longing_ and Harry wanted to look away, but he felt as if he couldn't. Faced with the raw emotions on Malfoy's face, his fingers loosened and he let go of the other man's sleeve. He half expected the blond to disappear. But Draco's white hand shot out, fast and sure as it always had been, and grabbed Harry's sleeve in return, ballasting himself back on earth.  
  
The wind continued to roar, louder than the blood that Harry could feel pounding through his veins. Finally Draco let go of his sleeve and started towards the path which led back down the hill. Harry continued to stand at the top of the hill for several long moments, savouring the sense of flying. Then he hurried after the blond, staggering against the wind as they headed back down the face of the hill. The wind grew less and less as they re-entered reality. After the tremendous sound at the top of the hill, the whole world seemed quiet and muffled, and Harry didn't want to open his mouth to say anything. It seemed like it would break whatever spell had been cast on them on top of that ancient hill. But as they trudged back through the village, their hair and eyes still wild, the everyday sounds pressed back in on them and the magical feeling faded anyway.  
  
Running his hands through his fair hair, Draco suggested mildly, "Pub lunch?"  
  
Harry nodded mutely and they continued to walk aimlessly through the village, until they came across what appeared to be the high street. Ducking into a likely looking pub, they leaned against the bar gratefully and looked over the menu scrawled on a blackboard on the wall. Quickly ordering two beef and ale pies and two pints of Leffe, they trudged over to a small table and dropped into their chairs tiredly. "Somehow," Harry spoke for the first time, "that was exhausting."  
  
Draco grinned tiredly but didn't say anything more. Harry looked at him carefully but whatever strange thoughts he'd had on the hill were gone, and it was just regular, annoying Malfoy he was faced with now, who surely wasn't going anywhere. He asked, "So why did you really want to come to Glastonbury?"  
  
Malfoy looked a bit confused, as he repeated, "Why?" He took a sip of his Leffe and said, "Because I wanted to see the Tor. I told you that."  
  
Harry frowned and asked doubtfully, "Really?"  
  
Draco's look of mild confusion had deepened into bewilderment and he said, "Yes, _really_. I like ruins."  
  
He seemed to be telling the truth, though there was no guarantee any longer. Harry was dumbfounded. That was really the only reason? There hadn't been some ulterior purpose or some plan to trick Harry into doing something stupid like drinking his weight in alcohol? He had simply wanted to go somewhere and he'd brought Harry along for the ride?  
  
Still staring at the blond doubtfully, Harry thought he would almost rather believe that the blond had something up his sleeve. It would seem less bizarre. Though it wasn't like Malfoy could seem anything less than bizarre in Harry's estimation. He suggested, "Then I've got somewhere I want to go."  
  
"That's nice," Draco said in very uninterested tone, as he sipped his beer.  
  
Harry glared at him, but continued, "Let's go shopping."  
  
This got a reaction, at least, as Malfoy burst out laughing. "You want to go shopping? Not that it's a bad idea--you desperately need to do some shopping, obviously. I don't think your wardrobe has changed since we were in school, but still..." He looked at Harry with mirthful grey eyes. "You want me to go shopping with you? That's your big plan? I take you to a spectacular monument of our civilisation and you want to go _shopping_?"  
  
Right on cue, Harry was getting angrily embarrassed like always. He insisted hotly, "I wasn't aware that this was some sort of competition to see the wonders of the world or something! I just meant that I wanted to do some shopping-- _magical_ shopping--and that if there was any place to go where we wouldn't be recognised, you would know it."  
  
This shut Malfoy up for a moment and he looked thoughtful. " _Magical_ shopping, eh? You mean, Diagon Alley, all that?"  
  
"Well, yes," Harry said sulkily, now that he'd finished his outburst. "But we'd be mobbed for sure if we actually went to Diagon Alley."  
  
"That's probably true. I haven't been for years, so I'm not sure what it's like now, but I imagine it can't have changed that much from the old days."  
  
Their food was brought over by the barman and they both fell silent for a moment. As they began to tuck into their pies, though, Malfoy mumbled, "There might not be a better place, though."  
  
Harry quickly swallowed his mouthful of hot pie, burning his throat as he did so. Wincing painfully, he asked, "What do you mean?"  
  
"Well," Draco said, blowing on his next spoonful of pie, "there are other magical shops here and there, but an entire shopping district, where you can get everything you need in one go? Your only choices are Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade." He slurped up the sufficiently cooled pie and chewed thoughtfully. "It might just be best to go to one of them. In disguise, perhaps?"  
  
"If you know the spells, I could handle the disguises," Harry offered without thinking. Then realising how agreeable he was being, he recanted awkwardly, "I mean, then you could go get a replacement wand and you wouldn't be so much damned trouble all the time."  
  
Draco's face became strangely still and he didn't say anything, but continued eating his pie in silence. Harry felt even more awkward. First he'd sounded like one of Malfoy's sycophants, then he'd just sounded like an ass. Sighing, he ate his own lunch in silence. Finally, Malfoy spoke up, "At any rate, it looks like I might be gone for the week. Going to Scotland for some business. So it would have to wait till after that."  
  
"Scotland?" Harry asked in surprise. "You don't mean...?" The only place he could think of where Malfoy might have business in Scotland would be...  
  
"Hogwarts, yes." Draco said the words easily enough, though his fingers tightened around his glass.  
  
Harry's food lay forgotten in front of him, growing chill. Hogwarts. The name had come up just the night before, when he'd told Malfoy about what had happened to Hermione. But it couldn't have to do with her, could it? Why would Malfoy bother, even? He asked again, as he had earlier in the car, "Does it have anything to do with Hermione?"  
  
Draco looked at him with a hint of his usual mocking attitude. "You know I won't answer."  
  
"You will," Harry said solemnly.  
  
Draco's eyebrows arched up in question, disappearing under his fringe. "You mean to use your last question? On something that might not even pan out?"  
  
"I want to know." Harry's eyes were flat and unwavering. Though why should he bother? Even he didn't know. He'd cut Hermione out of his life long ago, just as he'd cut everyone else out as well. But now that Malfoy was here--if Draco had some sort of connection to Hermione--he just had to know. "I'll use my last question, so tell me: does it have anything to do with Hermione?"  
  
Draco looked straight at the other man and said simply, "Yes." He took a sip from his glass of Leffe.  
  
Harry's breath caught in his throat. He'd been right. He asked hurriedly, "What is it? Why would you be interested in Hermione?"  
  
But Draco shook his head dismissively. He pulled the paper from his pocket and Harry watched with a sinking feeling as the blond uncapped his pen and made one final mark under Harry's name. Then he spoke, and confirmed Harry's suspicions. "You've used your last question, Potter."  
  
Malfoy was somehow growing more distant, while still sitting just inches from him. It was the same feeling Harry had experienced on top of the hill. He suggested desperately, "Well, then, let's extend the game. You can have ten more questions to ask me, and I'll take ten more as well." Those grey eyes were watching him disdainfully and he nearly begged, "Or you can have twenty more for my ten, okay? So what do you have to do with Hermione?"  
  
Draco snapped the cap back into place and put it and the paper back in his pocket. "Changing the rules now would make the game pointless. You knew the rules when you started playing." Picking up his glass to drain it, he told Harry in a hard voice, "No more questions."  



	12. In Which There Is A Sneak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Black sheep is a derogatory colloquialism in the English language meaning an outsider or one who is different in a way which others disapprove of. This can be someone who has been shunned by others, or one who has chosen to be an outsider, due to actions and aims that separate them from the rest of the people or 'flock.'"

**Chapter Twelve**  
_In Which There Is A Sneak_

  
  
THE TWO MEN HAD CONTINUED their tour of the small village, visiting the remains of the abbey and walking among its huge, empty shells. But while Draco was clearly still happy to be exploring the ruins, Harry couldn't cut off his frustrated emotions as easily. He trudged along, occasionally moved by the sights around him, but always returning to the niggling questions in his mind: What could Malfoy have to do with Hermione? Why was he interested in her? Was he actually going to meet her? Was she still at Hogwarts, where Harry himself had sent her all those years ago?  
  
After a long afternoon of Harry trying to wheedle more information out of Malfoy without the aid of his questions, they finally called it a day. Harry drove them back to Godric's Hollow in almost complete silence and as soon as they arrived, Draco stepped quickly out of the car. Even this strange Malfoy, who Harry had begun to expect to be ruffled by nothing, seemed tired of Harry's questions. He went straight to his motorbike and with a brief, "See you," started the bike with an angry growl of throttle. Harry watched the bike roar away down the road and began to plan.  
  
He hurried into his house and, only hesitating for moment, went into the spare bedroom. He looked up at the ceiling, where a depressed square clearly showed the entrance to the small attic. Conjuring a small step ladder, he climbed up until he could reach the ceiling and pushed at the panel, shoving it up and to the side, into the hole that lead to the attic. Then, taking one last deep breath of fresh air, he climbed into the attic himself.  
  
The air was dark and dusty. He pulled his wand out and muttered, " _Lumos!_ " A light bloomed in front of him and brought into focus the ghostly shape of an old trunk, surrounded by several lumpy bags. He searched through the bags first, since they were less intimidating. They were things that he'd received from Ginny over the years. Every time she brought some gift, he chucked it up in the attic without even bothering to open it. But she always told him what she'd given him anyway and so he was quite sure that one of the bags should contain some of Fred and George's disguise hats. Purposefully not allowing himself to think about the other things he found in the bags, he kept searching, filling his mind only with thoughts of magical hats.  
  
Finally his hand fell on something round and stiff. He pulled it out and couldn't help a sad laugh. It was a ridiculous bowler hat, which surely no one under age of fifty would wear. He hoped it would turn him into an old man, otherwise he'd just look a twat. From the same bag, he found a witch's pointy hat, an old-fashioned newspaper-boy cap, and a floppy hat with a bunch of flowers and fake fruit attached to it, which he could imagine a woman like Mrs Weasley wearing. He dropped them all through the hole and into the room below, then he shoved the rest of the bags away from him. He was left staring at his trunk.  
  
He ran his hands over its dusty lid, remembering all the times he'd had to force it down over all his messy things, as he had rushed to leave for another year at Hogwarts. The name tag was still attached to the handle, with his name written in his own childish, eleven-year-old writing. When he had come to this house, still in a daze from his final encounter with Voldemort, this trunk was the only thing he'd brought from the safe house where he, Ron and Hermione had been staying. He'd taken some clothes from the trunk, then levitated it up to the attic. He hadn't seen it since it had disappeared into the dark hole of the attic's entrance, nearly five years ago. Every time he had received another bag from Ginny, he had just blindly hurled it into the attic. This was the first time he'd come up and sat among his memories.  
  
Hands steady, he reached out to undo the buckles on the trunk. They still came undone easily, probably thanks to whatever preservative magic the trunk must have had on it. He pushed the top of the trunk open and looked down at the jumble within. The first thing his eyes fell on was Ravenclaw's model, which he and Malfoy had gone together to retrieve. What he'd told Malfoy had been true, and it no longer moved with the hypnotic, liquid motion it had once had, but it was still as delicately beautiful as it had been when they'd found it in that cursed wardrobe. Perhaps he really ought to give it away or something, but that would have to wait for another trip down memory lane. He was after something specific today.  
  
At least trying to be gentle, he pushed the model aside. It banged against Gryffindor's sword, still covered with dried, rusty blood. Reaching past the various artefacts, he shoved aside some of his old books and caught a glimpse of silvery fabric. Grabbing the end that he could see, he pulled his father's invisibility cloak out from the mess and let it pool in his lap. Resting his hands among its cool folds for a moment, he wondered if he might need any of his other old tricks. But this should be enough for just a simple task like fooling Malfoy. Much simpler than the last time he had searched through this trunk for supplies. Now he just needed one last thing.  
  
Grasping the cloak in one hand and his wand in the other, he shuffled back to the hole. He sat on its edge, carefully swung his legs over and stepped back onto the stepladder he'd conjured earlier. He climbed down and stared at the hats on the floor. He would take all this with him tomorrow and wait outside Malfoy's house. He knew from Malfoy's own admission that the Manor had been taken off the Floo network by the Aurors, as a precaution. And Malfoy certainly couldn't apparate without a wand. If he was really going to Scotland, he'd have use a more mundane sort of transportation and Harry would be right there with him.  
  
  
  
  
Harry shifted uncomfortably. He was sitting on top of the great stone wall that ringed Malfoy Manor, disguised doubly with the bowler cap (which had indeed turned him into a genial-looking greybeard) and the invisibility cloak on top of it, since Malfoy would certainly wonder about a strange old man sitting on his wall, even more than Harry Potter. He'd been sitting there since just before daybreak and it was now well past noon. He was getting hungry and the sunlight was making him sleepy. He had begun to worry that Malfoy might have slipped past him somehow. Could he have used a portkey? Or left last night even? Harry was going to be decidedly angry if his bum were this bruised for nothing.  
  
Stretching out on top of the stone wall, he lay down on his stomach, his face pillowed on his arms. He glanced back at himself to check that he was still entirely covered by the invisibility cloak, which he was. He also sent a thankful prayer to whatever besotted Malfoy had built this Manor and decided that having spikes or broken glass on top of the wall would ruin the picturesque image for his beloved bride. It was making Harry's wait a lot easier than it might have otherwise been.  
  
His new position wasn't a terribly good decision, of course, and before he knew it, he was dozing in the sun. Luckily he was jolted awake when he heard the loud growl of a motorbike being started. Jumping up in surprise, he pulled his cloak around himself more tightly and watched as Malfoy left through a nearly hidden side-gate on his bike. Pulling what looked like a twig from his pocket, Harry quickly undid the shrinking spell and his broom popped back to its regular size. Climbing on top of it, he kicked off from the top of the wall and quickly shot up into the air, too focussed on following the blond to think about the fact that this was the first time he'd flown on a broom in nearly five years.  
  
He quickly climbed high into the sky so that even if someone did see him through his invisibility cloak he would appear as small as a bird. The air was chilly up so high and he watched carefully as the tiny glinting motorbike below him headed toward the nearest town, as he'd suspected it would. Getting ahead of the bike, he landed gently on the roof of one of the houses right next to the main road. He ducked behind the chimney, his broom wedged under his cloak with him. Once he was sure everything was covered, he leaned around the chimney stack and watched Malfoy approach the town. The blond was wearing no helmet yet again--odd, since he'd been careful enough to put a seatbelt on in Harry's car the day before--and he was easy to spot as he headed through town toward the small train station.  
  
Harry had to move buildings a couple of times, but there was little doubt in his mind as to where Malfoy was headed. When he saw the motorbike pull into the park-and-ride lot for the small station, Harry swung into action. He flew down to the ground level and, as soon as he landed, shrunk his broom again. Slipping it into an inside pocket, he glanced around the empty alley and quickly whipped off his invisibility cloak, folding it as small as a handkerchief and stuffing it into another pocket. Now he was simply an old man in a bowler hat, strolling out of an alley. He headed toward the train station and spotted a bright head in front of him. It was Malfoy, his hair nearly as white as Harry's now was. In his frail guise, Harry shuffled along a bit more quickly, arriving at the station's door as it was swinging shut from Malfoy's entrance.  
  
Luckily for Harry, the station was so small that it didn't have any electronic ticket sales machines and so he followed Malfoy up to the counter and overheard the man ask for a ticket through to London, King's Cross Station. As soon as the blond received his ticket, he walked past Harry without a hint of recognition and headed toward the platform. Harry quickly asked for the same trip and hobbled after his mark. He was a bit surprised to see how naturally Malfoy headed for the right platform, without even sparing a glance to any of the signs. Obviously this was not his first time visiting the small Muggle station.  
  
The blond queued up behind one of the lines that marked where a carriage would stop. Harry queued in the next line over, wanting to be able to watch Malfoy without being too close. The train arrived about ten minutes later and Harry wished he had thought to bring a paper or something, so that he looked more natural. He decided he would buy one on the train--along with some lunch. When they finally got on and settled, Harry fixed himself in a seat from which he could see through to the next carriage and just barely keep watch on Malfoy's fair head. He got a stack of sandwiches from the trolley and ate them eagerly, then resigned himself to watching the other wizard from behind a copy of _The Guardian_.  
  
The trip took over three hours and they'd had to switch lines twice, with long waits between each train. Luckily, there were several people taking the same route to London, so Harry thought his presence wasn't too terribly suspicious. The difficult part came when they arrived at King's Cross Station. Harry was pretty much positive that, having come all the way to King's Cross, Malfoy was planning to take the Hogwarts Express from platform nine and three-quarters. Because of this confidence, he let himself lose sight of Malfoy for a moment--long enough to duck into a dark corner and change hats. It was as a bustling, portly, middle-aged woman, wearing a gaudy hat dripping silk flowers and fake fruits, that he set out after the blond again. As he'd expected, he caught up to him on the way to platforms nine and ten. Keeping a safe distance, now that he knew where they were headed, he let several metres distance grow between them. As Malfoy neared the magical barrier, Harry hung back, pretending to examine a vending machine.  
  
From the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy pause unsurely before the barrier and then lean towards it casually, letting one hand slide through it and disappear into the brick. For some reason the blond's shoulders slumped, as if they'd lost some sort of tension and then, with one quick glance around, he slid through the wall and onto the extra platform. Harry rushed toward the barrier himself and, with only a half-bothered look around, passed through it, whipping his invisibility cloak out as he did, so that by the time he appeared on platform nine and three-quarters, he didn't. He was completely invisible. He was going to have to stay that way, as well, since he had no wizarding money to pay for a ticket. He quickly spotted Malfoy on the half-empty platform. Moving away from the barrier, he leaned against the far wall, where no one was likely to bump into him, and began waiting again.  
  
The Hogwarts express regularly only ran once a day, since Hogsmeade was not that terribly popular of a destination. The train would leave at half-eight and then arrive in Hogsmeade early the next morning. Harry was looking forward to a very uncomfortable night. He remembered the last time he had ridden this train, hidden beneath his invisibility cloak. It had been on the way back to Hogwarts for sixth year, when he'd been spying on Malfoy and the other Slytherins and they had petrified him, broken his nose and left him (still invisible) on the train. He hoped this trip would have a better conclusion.  
  
Finally there was the blast of a long-remembered horn and the bright scarlet Hogwarts Express pulled into the station. Harry watched it silently, unable to do anything else in his current situation. Not that he knew what he would have done otherwise--probably just watch it silently. The old train ground to a stop and a thin trickle of passengers from Hogsmeade spilt out onto the platform. Several young people headed straight for the barrier, beginning the slow, subtle process of slipping through one at a time. They were probably looking forward to an exciting night in London, Harry thought wistfully. He watched as Malfoy got on the train and straightened up to follow, though he had to let the rest of the small crowd get on first, lest someone bump into him in his invisible state.  
  
When he was quite sure everyone must be settled in a compartment, he jumped on the train himself, just before the doors swung automatically shut. Prowling the carpeted corridor, he peered into each compartment he passed, still able to remember precisely which ones he had shared with what friends. Finally he came across a white blond figure in one of them, stretched out on the fluffy bed that had appeared--magically--where there were normally just seats. The opposite compartment was empty and Harry silently let himself into it. He cast a quick spell on both his and Malfoy's compartment doors that would alert him if either was opened, then he settled in for a long, uncomfortable and hungry night.  
  
  
  
  
The next morning, Harry woke with a jolt. He had expected that he wouldn't be able to sleep at all, because of his precarious situation, but actually he hadn't woken once since he'd got on the train in London. The pre-dawn light coming through the window made him guess that it must still be before seven and he wondered for a moment why he had woken so abruptly. Then he realised that they weren't moving. He was turned around in a flash and pressed to the window, peering out into the grey morning light. It was Hogsmeade. They had arrived.  
  
Before he had any more time to marvel, his wand suddenly vibrated in his pocket. Spinning around again, he was just in time to see Malfoy stepping out of his own compartment. Grabbing at his cloak to be sure it was still covering him, Harry watched the blond go with his heart in his throat. As soon Malfoy passed out of sight, Harry whipped out his wand and spelled the window open in his carriage. Still clutching at his invisibility cloak, he jumped lightly down onto the platform. The only people around were the sleepy passengers, still staggering off the night train. Up ahead there was a glint of fair hair and Harry set out after Malfoy once again.  
  
While making sure he didn't lose the blond, stick out from his invisibility cloak or run into anyone, Harry goggled at the streets of Hogsmeade. Nothing much had changed in the last half-decade or so. It was mostly all the same shops and homes that had probably been there for dozens, if not hundreds, of years. And around him were witches and wizards, wearing jewel-coloured cloaks and robes. It had been so long since he'd seen someone in a robe. He himself only wore jeans and the like anymore--or, at the moment, a polka-dotted dress, beige stockings and a floppy hat underneath an invisibility cloak, but these were unusual circumstances. He realised that Malfoy stood out in the crowd, still wearing his Muggle clothes. Everyone else on the train had either been wearing robes when they got on or slipped some on by the time they arrived. But Draco Malfoy stalked down the road wearing well-fitted jeans, a dark shirt and a heavy, fur-trimmed jacket.  
  
His attention now drawn from the marvel of the nostalgic buildings and dress of Hogsmeade, Harry began to notice that it wasn't just the clothes which set Malfoy apart. Clearly some of the older witches and wizards had recognised him and there was an undeniable shuffle to shy away from him as he walked by. This made Harry's work in following him easier, but he couldn't help getting a bit annoyed. He'd had people shy away from him in the past, too.  
  
But he kept up his silent vigilance, as he followed Malfoy to the edge of village and into the Green Dragon, a dodgy old pub and lodging house. The place was empty, thanks to the early hour, and Draco had to knock on the landlord's door to rouse him. Apparently he had reserved a room in advance, and the landlord trudged out of his own warm room to show Draco (plus one) up to it. Harry followed them into the empty bar and quickly reached down to pull the high-heeled shoes off his surprisingly fleshy, stockinged feet. Ignoring the odd feeling of touching feet that weren't his own, he snuck after the two men, now nearly silent in just his stockings. It was definitely time to get rid of the disguise, he decided.  
  
After unlocking the door to room number four, the landlord held it open for Draco and the young man stepped through it promptly. Harry ducked in after him, almost brushing up against the thin man with his own currently less than svelte self. As the landlord quickly oriented Draco in the room, Harry pulled off the floppy hat, while still careful not to disturb his cloak. He returned to his usual body, which fit much better under the cloak anyhow, then folded up the hat and stuffed it into the back of his trousers. He settled himself against one of the window sills and silently watched Malfoy. After the landlord left them alone (though Malfoy obviously still didn't know it was a 'them' and not just 'him'), the other man sat wearily on the bed. Apparently he hadn't slept as well on the train as Harry had. Dragging his messenger's bag up onto the bed as well, he pawed through it for a couple of moments until he pulled out a book. Harry could just make out some incredibly dull-sounding title, like _The Great Ancient Civilisations_ from across the room.  
  
The blond flopped down on the bed and began to read. Before long, though, he had fallen asleep again, his fingers curled loosely around the old book and his mouth hanging slightly open. If this was a usual sort of day and they were at either his own or Malfoy's house, Harry would have been tempted to do something to the other man as he slept so innocently. But not today--today he was determined to keep hidden until he found out the truth about Malfoy's relationship with Hermione. He watched the blond sleep for a while, then stared out the window onto the street below, as more townspeople began their days. He had begun to lose interest, thinking dolefully about how he might ever get something to eat, when a hooded figure caught his attention. There was something familiar about it--the purposeful stride, the small stature...  
  
Harry gasped and stood up straight. He shot a look toward the bed, but Draco was still sleeping and hadn't heard a thing. Turning back to the window, Harry watched as the cloaked woman--who he was quite certain must be Hermione--drew closer and closer, until she disappeared into the pub downstairs. Within the minute, he heard footsteps on the stairs and looked around the room wildly, wondering where he was least likely to be run into. He ended up diving for a dark corner beside the bed. His back pressed against the wall, he took careful, shallow breaths. He checked that his cloak was covering him properly and then looked toward Malfoy, who was still peacefully sleeping. Feeling a bit bad for the blond, he reached out with his foot and nudged the bed just hard enough to give Malfoy a jolt. The blond mumbled something sleepily and his eyes fluttered open. He seemed to realise that he had fallen asleep and sat up slowly, rubbing tiredly at his face, where there were still lines from the bedclothes visible.  
  
Even though he had been expecting it, when there was a soft knock on the door, Harry jumped. Malfoy did as well, and he looked at the watch on his wrist, then muttered, "Bloody magic." Harry could only guess that the Muggle-looking watch had probably fritzed out in the magic-heavy environment, as his own had. Draco stood up from the bed and, quickly running his hands through his hair and across his face, but unable to do anything about the tell-tale sleepy flush across his cheeks, went to the door. He pulled it open graciously and seemed unsurprised by the visitor on other side of it. "Hermione Granger," he said, greeting the woman in a mild tone of voice.  
  
Hermione pulled her hood back and chestnut curls tumbled free around her face. Her own cheeks were flushed, though for a different reason, and she looked warily up at Malfoy, who was still at least half a foot taller than her. "Draco Malfoy," she responded in kind, and Harry was surprised to hear a familiar sting in her tone. _How_ did Hermione know Malfoy? Had they met since the war? Surely she had forgot the former Slytherin, along with everything else, when she touched Hufflepuff's cup.  
  
Standing tensely in his corner, Harry watched as Draco invited Hermione to sit at the room's one small table. He took a seat opposite her and started speaking. "I'm very pleased that you decided to meet with me."  
  
Hermione had no time for niceties, though, and she said shortly, "I wouldn't have done so by choice. But you said that you had information about Harry Potter."  
  
Harry felt as if the air had been squeezed out of his lungs. The familiar way she had said his name, it was as if she knew who he was, knew _what_ he was to her. He turned to watch Draco speak.  
  
"I do. I know where he is and I think I know why you haven't been able to find him. I believe that someone has made his home Unplottable, though I don't think it was Potter himself."  
  
Harry stared at Draco with wide eyes. What was the man saying? His house was Unplottable? How could it be? As far as he knew, the only person who knew where he lived was Ginny. And now Malfoy. But Malfoy made it sound as if people had been looking for him for a long time, and Malfoy had just found Harry a week ago. It couldn't have been him.  
  
Hermione's pressing voice cut through Harry's thoughts, as she demanded, "How can I know that what you say is true? And even if it were, why would _you_ of all people be telling me this?"  
  
Again, that old distrust. Had they met again and Hermione developed the same dislike of Malfoy again?  
  
"What would it take for you to believe me?" Draco asked mildly. "To tell you about Harry's deepest and darkest secrets? That he can't hold his liquor? That he still likes to torture himself over what happened to the Weasel brat? Over what happened to _you_ , when you touched Hufflepuff's cup?"  
  
Hermione's gasp of horror was real and she stared at Malfoy in dismay. "How--how could you know about that?" Her voice went up an octave, straight into near-hysteria. "What have you done to him? Have you tortured him to get information? Is he all right?"  
  
Harry ought to have stepped in, but his need to understand this meeting was greater than any urge to speak up. Draco was full of calm aplomb, as always, and he said reasonably, "Nothing of the sort. It was just... a game." Then he did the worst possible thing and smiled wickedly, which caused Hermione to draw her wand on him immediately. His smiled died as he eyed her wand cautiously.  
  
"What's the matter?" she spat angrily. "Why don't you draw your wand? Or doesn't the ministry _allow_ you one anymore, Death Eater?"  
  
Draco's face became tight, but he still didn't get angry. Harry watched silently. Still seated calmly in his chair, Draco said, "Please, won't you control yourself." It wasn't a question but a command. "I'm sorry for baiting you but I assure you that Potter has come to no harm by me." He couldn't seem to help another small grin. "Well, no more than a nasty hangover, at any rate." He cleared his throat and continued in a more serious tone, "I came here today because I think you should meet with him."  
  
Hermione didn't lower her wand, but she at least answered with words, and not curses. "You're going to help me meet with Harry? Why?"  
  
Draco smiled in a very predatory sort of way. "Well, it's not like I'm doing it for nothing. I'd like your assistance on a research project."  
  
"What kind of research?" she asked warily. "I won't help you with your nasty little-"  
  
"Please, please," Draco cut her off, in a silky voice that was ground out between his tightly clenched teeth. "It is only theoretical research. I'm interested in ways that magic can be taken away from someone, and ways that it can be restored."  
  
Hermione began to question the blond man, since this still sounded plenty suspicious to her, but Harry had stopped listening for the moment. Something had suddenly clicked in his mind. A thousand little clues and questions from all the time he'd spent with Malfoy in the last week suddenly fell into place, leaving him with one undeniable conclusion. Throwing all pretence of stealth to the wind, he strode across the room, tearing off his cloak as he went. Hermione and Draco both looked up when they heard the angry footsteps and were just in time to see Harry Potter materialise in the room.  
  
Hermione gave a breathy shriek but Harry had already grabbed Malfoy's arm in an iron-hard grip. Before he said anything, Hermione jumped up and reached out towards him, staring as if he was a ghost. "Is it--is it really him?" she asked Malfoy, seeming unable to address Harry himself.  
  
Draco glared up at Harry, and answered irritably, "Yes, it really is, the great blunderer himself. What the fuck are you doing here, Potter?"  
  
He was well pissed that his plans had gone awry. Potter would of course show up and ruin his chance at manipulating Granger into helping him out. Even now she was whimpering the Boy Who Lived's name. But Harry was still glaring daggers at the man in front of him.  
  
"Malfoy," he ground out, furious, at himself and at Malfoy. "Why would you want to research that?"  
  
Draco tried to pull his arm free but found that he couldn't, which made him return Harry's glare with just as much fire. "I don't have to answer any of your questions any longer," he reminded him angrily.  
  
Harry grabbed at the blond's shoulder as well and shook the man as if he were a child, even though they were nearly the same size. His angry, painful questions poured out of him, faster and faster. "Why were you so sure that we wouldn't find your wand after the accident? Why don't you ever want to go get a new one? Why do you even refuse my wand when I've offered it to you? Why do you watch football? And use mobile phones? _Why do you live like a muggle?_ "  
  
Malfoy's face had contorted into something ugly and painful, and he managed to knock Harry's hands away as he spat back dispassionately, "Because I _am_ one." His grey eyes burnt into Harry's green. "Is that what you wanted to hear, you with your _questions_? Will you be satisfied, now that you know that I can't do magic anymore--that I'm no better than a squib? Can you finally loathe yourself enough, to know that it's _all your fault?_ "  



	13. In Which There Is Truth (...And Even A Certain Large River In Egypt)

**Chapter Thirteen**   
_In Which There Is Truth (And A Whole Lot Of Moodswings And Even A Certain Large River In Egypt)_

  
HARRY RECOILED, BACKING AWAY FROM Malfoy. Even Hermione had been stunned into silence. Staggering backwards, Harry attempted to sit on the edge of the bed, but missed and fell to the floor instead. He didn't pick himself up. At the table, Malfoy's anger had already gone cold. After five years, he'd long since used up all the anger he had. He said tiredly, "If you had wanted to come with me, you could have just asked. You didn't have to follow me all the way from Wiltshire under a damned invisibility cloak." He rolled his eyes and his glance slid to Harry, still awkwardly sprawled on the floor with his back against the bedframe. "Of course, I would have just said no, wouldn't I have?"  
  
He sighed and continued, "And now you've really gone and buggered everything up." The blond leaned back in his chair, looking between Hermione and Harry's stunned faces. It didn't seem like those two were going to make any progress on their own. Raising his eyes to the ceiling helplessly, Draco muttered, "And you're even more useless than you usually are."

  
He pushed himself up from his chair and walked across the room to where Harry sat. He stood above him, looking down at that bowed dark head, then nudged him none too gently with one of his sock-covered feet.  
  
"Oi." Harry flinched but didn't look up at him, so Draco dropped down to his haunches, putting himself about on level with the other man. "Look," he said in an exasperated tone of voice, "forget about what I said. I really don't blame you for what happened. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. I chose to take you along to get the horcrux and I chose to pick the damned thing up, though I had guessed what it might do to me."  
  
Harry finally looked up at him with dark eyes. "So it was the horcrux," he said in a flat voice. "You took it for me. In my place. Because I couldn't lose my magic, not and still beat Voldemort."  
  
"You're such a conceited twat."  
  
Harry's eyes widened but Draco continued in his disparaging tone, "I took it for you? And you always accuse me of being bigheaded. I took it for myself, you _ass_. I took it because I wanted the damned war over with. I wanted Voldemort gone. That's why everyone did what they did--they weren't helping you, they were helping themselves."  
  
Pushing himself up again, Draco wiped the dust from his jeans and said finally, "So stop blaming yourself for other people's decisions, you absolute _tosser_."  
  
He left this to sink in and threw himself back into the chair, wondering if he could still salvage anything from the situation. Harry continued to stare unseeingly at the floor, but now as the shock was receding, it was leaving him with a strange new feeling in its wake. And it wasn't simply shame or guilt or anything else he could recognise--and he knew enough about those to write a book.  
  
Hermione had managed to unfreeze herself at some point during Malfoy's little 'pep talk' and she stepped closer now. Kneeling next to her oldest friend, she said softly, "Harry... I'm so glad you've come back..."  
  
Harry looked up at her in confusion. "Come back? But I..." He searched her face and found no hint of the blank curiosity that she had used to face him with. "Wait, do you--do you mean you _remember_?"  
  
With a wobbly smile, Hermione threw her thin arms around his neck, just as she had as a girl. "Oh, Harry, _of course_ I do."  
  
Staring awkwardly over her back, he asked in a bewildered tone, "But how? The last time..."  
  
"Harry," she said fondly, wiping at her eyes, "you really are a fool sometimes, aren't you?" She laughed even as she cried, and tried to explain. "It's true that I had lost my memories for a time. But McGonagall had the best mediwitches and mediwizards from St Mungo's to help and I got most all of my memory back years ago. There are still some blank bits and fuzzy spots, but--oh, Harry!" She gently put a hand to his cheek, rough with stubble from a day without showering or shaving. "I couldn't have ever really forgot you."  
  
Swallowing a painful ache in his throat, Harry said flatly, "Then you know about Ron."  
  
There was an imperceptible degree of change and her face went from happy to pained, only her tears unchanging. "I know," she said softly. "It was a horrible thing that happened. But-" she started, then paused, trying to smile, though it was a still shaky, "and don't think I'm terrible for saying this--but I'm glad I didn't lose you both." She hugged Harry again, gently, and whispered into his ear, "I'm glad that you're still here."  
  
Harry's mouth sagged open and he stared at Draco over Hermione's cloaked shoulders. The blond had pulled a thin flask from his back pocket and was taking a swig of something undoubtedly alcoholic from it. As he watched, Harry had to tell himself, _He can't do magic. Draco Malfoy is not a wizard._ Then he looked down at the curly head buried into his shoulder. _And Hermione remembers me._  
  
This was turning into the strangest morning of his life. He asked the room in general, "Am I having some strange dream?" Draco threw the flask at him nonchalantly and, thanks to his arms being stuck in Hermione's embrace, it struck him in the head painfully, causing him to yell, " _Ow!_ Damn it, Malfoy!"  
  
Draco grinned, though it was a bit less convincing than usual, and pointed out, "I'd say that's a no, then. Now give me back my flask."  
  
Harry wriggled one arm free and picked up the silver flask, lobbing it back at the blond. Then he tapped Hermione on the shoulder unsurely. "Er, Hermione?" She looked up at him with a strange expression, a mixture of relief and fear. He told her, "I need to understand some of this. Would you mind just letting us talk for a bit?"  
  
Pushing herself up embarrassedly, she quickly said, "Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry for just...I mean, it wasn't very..."  
  
Harry caught her arm, which stopped her babbling, but then didn't know what to say. But she seemed relieved by the small touch. She pulled away and reclaimed her seat at the little table. Draco was still sitting opposite her and spinning his flask idly on the tabletop, though at least he wasn't drinking any more from it. Harry continued to sit on the floor and look across at the two of them. His mouth went dry and he discovered that he had no idea how to react to all that had just been thrown in his lap.  
  
He licked his lips and then asked the simplest question he had. "So people have been looking for me?"  
  
"Of course!" Hermione gave him a surprised look as she exclaimed, "It's been five years since Voldemort fell and for all that time, none of us even knew if you were alive or dead!"  
  
Harry's brow crinkled and he said, "But what about Ginny?"  
  
Hermione's face filled with serious consternation. "What _about_ Ginny?" she asked unsurely.  
  
Glancing at Malfoy, Harry remembered what he had said about his house being Unplottable. Having caught Harry's eye, the blond nodded slightly. Harry turned his glance back to Hermione and said flatly, "Ginny has known where I live for years. And she's never told you?"  
  
It appeared that all the blood rushed from Hermione's face. "She--she knew...?" Her breath whooshed out of her in disbelief. "Are you sure? I mean--she's always been the most desperate to find you! It seems like every week she owls me with some new idea about where you might be or how to find you..."  
  
Harry looked back toward Malfoy again and the blond returned his look coolly, not saying anything. Harry ran his hands through his hair, letting his head fall forward so he didn't have to look at either of the room's two other occupants. "This is getting too complicated. I still need to understand just how we got here today."  
  
He heard Malfoy clear his throat significantly and hazarded a glance up at the blond. Draco said in an irritated voice, "You are going to owe me for this explanation." Then he began to tell his side of the story. "When you told me what had happened to Granger, it seemed strange to me, because I was sure I had read something about her in the _Prophet_ a couple of years earlier. About her becoming the newest and youngest professor at Hogwarts." Here Harry glanced at Hermione and she nodded slowly. "I thought that she must have had all of her enviable knowledge and memory restored to her, to be awarded such position. Memory charms can be broken, after all, if that was indeed what had stolen her memories."  
  
"Memory charms can be..." Harry repeated the words softly and understood just how big of a fool he'd been. Of course he had known that, from first hand experience even! Hadn't he forced his way through Slughorn's self-inflicted memory charm in sixth year? Hadn't he seen in the Pensieve the testimonies that Dumbledore had got from memory charmed victims of Voldemort? He smacked his forehead with a fist and muttered, "I've been such an idiot, haven't I?"  
  
"Nothing new, Potter," Draco assured him. "We're all quite used to it by now. At any rate, I suspected that Granger would also be looking for you. If you only read any newspapers, you would have known, as I did, that the Wizarding world has never given up on finding you. I realised that I could use her knowledge and resources for my pet project, and so I wrote to her that night and proposed a meeting. I told her that I knew where you were, thinking that I might be able to trade the knowledge of where you were for...well, you know."  
  
"A way to get back your magic," Harry filled in. "The magic that you lost when you went with me to get the last horcrux."  
  
"That'd be the one," Draco agreed easily. "Not that I really believe such a way exists. But when such an ideal opportunity fell in my lap--access to Hogwarts' library and the widely-heralded brightest witch of the generation--I figured I had to at least give it a try."  
  
Hermione spoke up for the first time since she'd taken her seat, saying, "Now there's something that I've missed. You two went after the last horcrux? Together? And now you're--what? _Friends_?" She said that last word like she was describing some sort of contagious disease.  
  
"Oh, ye gods, no," Draco said quickly, shaking his head. "We only just ran into each other a week ago. But we did go after the last horcrux together, five years ago. Snape and I had been researching it. Near the end, he was captured for being a traitor, but he managed to get me away at least. He told me to take the information to Potter, which I did. Together we went to find the thing, an armillary sphere made by Ravenclaw. I took care of the spells, since Potter here is a useless sot, and I knew that there was some kind of curse on the armilla."  
  
"What do you know about it?" Hermione asked, her tone curious for the first time. It would be an impressive bit of magic.  
  
"I could tell that it was a targeted curse, which would take something from whoever touched it. At the time, I wasn't sure what I would lose--could have been my my memories, my sanity, my soul, my life. Anything, really. It didn't matter much to me, since I knew I would be dead as soon as Voldemort found me anyway. And as complex of a curse as it was, it would only work once. I was quite sure of that, and so I made sure that I grabbed it first." He glanced at Harry, then continued, "I believe that the magic it stole from me was then stored within the artefact itself. But I'm told by Potter that you and he performed a charm on it which removed all the magic from it. So I'm quite sure that there's no going back."  
  
Harry looked at the dirty floorboards. "Where does magic come from?"  
  
There was an amused laugh and Draco replied, "Now there's a question for the ages."  
  
Hermione spoke up, her tone sober, "No one really knows. It appears that magic is something people are simply born with or not. There is no known way to change the magical ability you are born with--though many people have tried to increase their powers over the years, unsuccessfully." She looked at Draco critically. "There is also no successful way that I have ever heard of to transfer or give magic to the magicless. And you have the friends and family of many squibs to thank for that research."  
  
Draco didn't show any signs of disappointment as he shrugged and said, "Like I said, I didn't come expecting a solution."  
  
"However," Hermione interjected, looking at Harry with warm eyes, "you brought Harry back. And for that, I'll look into it more thoroughly."  
  
For the first time, Draco looked faintly surprised at Hermione's behaviour. But he didn't say anything, and Hermione turned to Harry again and asked, "Where on _Earth_ have you been, Harry?"  
  
"You're going to kick yourself when you hear this," Draco muttered.  
  
Harry glared at Malfoy. "I've been living in Wiltshire, in a small Muggle village."  
  
"The same village," Draco decided helpfully to point out, "that his parents stayed in: Godric's Hollow."  
  
"What!" Hermione exclaimed. "But that was one of the first places we thought to check! We asked everyone we met there if they had heard of you! We even showed them photos, in case you weren't using your real name!"  
  
Harry asked blankly, "You did? No one ever said anything to me..."  
  
Draco stepped into the conversation again. "And that's why I believe that someone has been purposefully helping you hide. When I realised where it was you lived, I knew that someone else must have thought of it over the years. Someone must have come poking around, asking questions. And yet they hadn't found you. It reeks of meddling magic."  
  
Hermione had to agree, though she didn't like where the conversation was headed. "But then who could have done it?"  
  
"That's not the real question," Draco interjected. "Like I said, anyone _could_ have figured out that he would go to the same village as his parents. And that means that anyone _could_ have put the spells on him. The real question is how is it that only the littlest Weaselette could find him?"  
  
Hermione was shaking her head in denial. "But you found him!"  
  
"I only know where he lives because he brought me into his house himself." Draco looked at Hermione with steady eyes. "I imagine that if you or I walked by the house without him inviting us in, we wouldn't even know it was there." Without turning around, he shot a question at Harry, "Did you ever invite the ginger in?"  
  
"No," Harry admitted weakly, "she just started showing up uninvited."  
  
Hermione suddenly stood up, shoving her chair back with a loud screech. "This is all just unfounded suspicions. We shouldn't jump to any conclusions. For now, why don't we just go back to the school? We can figure through things there, and everyone would be thrilled to see-"  
  
" _No!_ "  
  
Hermione and Draco both turned to look at Harry. Even he looked a bit surprised at how vehement he'd been and he said a bit more reasonably, "No, Hermione. I can't go there."  
  
She said pleadingly, "Why ever not? Harry, you've been missing for years!"  
  
"And why do you think he never came out on his own?" Draco asked coolly. His eyes narrowed on Harry, who was staring at the floor again. "He's petrified. Aren't you, Potter?"  
  
Harry looked up to glare at Draco and muttered, "Like you're one to fucking talk."  
  
Draco grinned mysteriously and mimed making a tick in the air. Harry ground his teeth together in frustration, then admitted, "Yes, I am."  
  
Smiling benignly, Draco spoke with all the gentle wisdom of a saint. "You should really learn to be honest with yourself, Potter, without me having to force your hand."  
  
Harry squashed the urge to launch himself across the room at the blond, since beating him to a pulp wouldn't change the fact that Draco still had over ten questions to ask of Harry. Instead he finally stood up and brushed himself clean of dust. "I'm sorry, Hermione, but I can't." He stalked off to the en suite bathroom and closed the door behind him firmly.  
  
He stood in the small bathroom, sagging against the door. What had he done now? He was sure that he looked like an immature git for running away to the bathroom, but he would look like even more of a git if he went back out now. He was tempted to apparate back home that instant, but he knew he ought to talk to Hermione more. But talking while Malfoy was there meant that Malfoy would wind him up the whole time. And talking without Malfoy there was more frightening yet.  
  
Out in the bedroom, Hermione and Draco both stared at the bathroom door in silence. The seconds ticked by and finally there was the sound of a shower unwillingly starting up, with lots of squealing and spluttering. Draco smiled privately and muttered, "He's really painted himself into a corner this time."  
  
Hermione turned to look at him sharply and asked, "What do you mean by that? You've been acting awfully familiar."  
  
Draco shrugged infuriatingly and said, "I don't have to answer any of your questions." Then he walked over to the bathroom door and let himself in.  
  
Standing in the shower, with the shower half-heartedly spurting hot water at him, Harry was pretending that he wasn't in Hogsmeade and that Hermione and Draco were not sitting just outside. Wrapped in a cosy bubble of denial, he was thinking of nothing but the feeling of the hot water on his skin, when he heard the bathroom door open. He drew back the shower curtain just far enough to stick his head around it and see Malfoy hoisting himself up to sit precariously on the edge of the sink. A small crack appeared in his bubble. As he ducked back under the hot water, he called out, "I'm not convinced that that's a good idea."  
  
"When you can't conjure up chairs at will," Draco informed him, "you become a lot less picky about where you sit."  
  
Scrubbing at his hair, Harry suggested, "The toilet would seem a more natural choice."  
  
He heard Draco scoff, "You become a lot less picky. You don't lose all dignity, though."  
  
Harry mulled over the idea that a sink was somehow more dignified to sit upon than a toilet for several long moments, as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair. He asked, "Might I ask what you're doing in here?"  
  
"Why? Does it bother you?"  
  
Harry snorted, "Well, that should be obvious."  
  
Draco hummed consideringly. "Really? Because you don't _obviously_ seem very bothered at all. Are you?" He paused for a moment, but before Harry could come back with another glib remark, he said, "Ticky-ticky, Potter. That's question number nine for me."  
  
Harry's hands suddenly stopped where they had been rinsing his hair. He thought about it. "I suppose not. It's a bit... odd, though. I don't generally have people in the bathroom with me. And by 'generally,' I mean 'ever.'"  
  
He finished rinsing his hair, and picked up a small complimentary bottle of cheap conditioner. He started dumping it into his hand and Draco's voice came from the other side of the shower curtain. "I must say, you seem remarkably less disturbed than I would have expected about this whole 'no magic' thing."  
  
A cold whisper of reality and Harry shivered even as the hot water continued to pour over him. He ran his hands through his hair, spreading the conditioner throughout it. "I feel like I already kind of knew it, deep down. I mean, it was obvious in a way. But still, now that I _really_ know it, it's mind-boggling. But at the same time it's not, because I already knew it. So it's just strange, like I'm totally shocked and calm at the same time. Somewhere in the back of my mind, there's a voice screaming that it can't be true, and the rest of my mind is just telling me to get on with it. Does that make sense?"  
  
" _No_. God, of _course_ not." Draco asked disbelievingly, " _How_ could that make sense? That was the most nonsensical string of English that I've ever heard."  
  
Harry shrugged, though the other man couldn't see him, and washed the conditioner from his hair, then shut off the water. He immediately felt the cold air on his skin--there was certainly no warming charm on this shower. "Throw me a towel," he told Malfoy, and moments later one came sailing over the shower curtain. He caught it up and quickly rubbed it over his body, getting himself relatively dry before slinging it around his waist. He stepped around the curtain and saw Draco still sitting on top of the sink. He gestured impatiently for the blond to move and, with an aggrieved sigh, Draco stood up to lean against the bathroom door, much as Harry had earlier.  
  
Harry picked up his wand from his pile of clothes and began using a shaving charm on his face, muttering as he worked, "I hate this spell. Why can't wizards use regular old razors like normal people?"  
  
"I can tell you," Draco said conversationally, "'regular old razors' are much more of a pain for those unused to them."  
  
Harry glanced at him from the corner of his eye and said agreeably enough, "I suppose so. I certainly cut myself up pretty badly when I was first learning." He finished his face and tossed his wand back onto the pile of his clothes. He turned on the tap and quickly splashed water on his face, wiping it clean with a hand towel. He asked, "So is Hermione still out there?"  
  
"I believe so." He eyed Harry pointedly and then reluctantly asked, "You haven't gone into some sort of crazy denial, have you?"  
  
"'Crazy denial'?" Harry repeated in an amused tone, though deep down he wasn't amused but screaming, _Don'tsayitDon'tsayitDon'tsayit_.  
  
Draco nodded his head consideringly, and said, "Well, yes. Fifteen minutes ago you were acting like the world had fallen to pieces and now you are some sort of zen master."  
  
Harry mouthed the words 'zen master,' making a disbelieving face at the mirror, and then said, "You _really_ do watch too much Muggle television, don't you?"  
  
"And you really are avoiding the question, aren't you? And the whole situation. Do you think you can just hide in this bathroom until everyone forgets? Do you really think that things can go back to 'normal' now? You're stuck in the real world now, Potter. And let me remind you that you brought it upon yourself."  
  
Harry didn't say anything more, but stared at himself in the mirror as the seconds passed them by. All his protective delusions were in pieces on the floor. He looked at his own bleak face objectively. He had grown, and his face had become harder and sharper than it had been when he was just a boy of sixteen, but he was still recognisable. Even with his glasses long gone, even with his scar covered by the thick black fringe that went past his eyebrows when he got too lazy to have his hair cut, those who had known him would still see him for who he was. His eyes slid over the blond leaning against the wall. Malfoy was the same, of course. They had both recognised each other in an instant, in the small clinic in Godric's Hollow. But then they did know each other's faces nearly as well as their own, after all those years of glaring across classrooms, quidditch fields, and halls.  
  
"You don't want to go either, do you?" he asked plainly.  
  
Draco's only reply was to say "Six years. The students who were first years when we left are seventh years now." He turned around and put his hand on the door's handle. He told Harry, "Get dressed, you daft git," and then he was gone.  
  
Harry sighed, but started pulling his clothes back on. What would it be like to walk into Hogwarts now? As an adult and with everything that had happened since he'd left those halls? It was almost too surreal to imagine and yet here he was in Hogsmeade, barely a mile from the castle.  
  
If someone really had been putting spells on him to keep him hidden, he should probably find out about it. And he'd been the one thinking about how he needed to do something with his life. And if there really was something that could be done for Malfoy...  
  
Harry saw again in his mind Draco's tired face, as he had explained how he'd lost his magic. He must have had some idea in the back of his mind, after all the signs he'd seen, because Malfoy's revelation had felt like confirmation. Even the fact that it had happened when they had gone after the horcrux explained so much--Malfoy's behaviour in those last moments, his commanding Harry to take care of Voldemort once and for all, the reason why the Aurors didn't consider him much of a threat, and so much more. And oddly Harry didn't immediately want to cut himself off from the shameful knowledge that what had happened to the other man at least partially because of him. He felt bad about it, of course, but rather than wanting to send Malfoy away, like he had done with his best friends, he thought that he wanted to do something about it.  
  
Having come to this conclusion, he pulled the bathroom door open again and stepped back into the hotel bedroom. Hermione looked up from her seat at the small table and he told her, "All right. Let's go to Hogwarts."


	14. In Which Our Boys Meet A Girl

**Chapter Fourteen**   
_In Which Our Boys Meet A Girl_

  
THEN HAD COME THE LONG walk to the castle. Harry and Draco were still the only two people in the village walking around in blatantly Muggle clothing and so they drew quite a few stares as they passed by the shops. People first looked at them for their unusual dress, but then they kept looking when they began to notice just who the two young men were. There was furious gossip all around them, but no one quite dared approach the two 'celebrities,' especially not with Hermione--who was walking slightly ahead of them--shooting glares around like they were going out of fashion. Several people ran inside as soon as they saw the two of them--probably off to owl the _Prophet_ with the scoop of a lifetime.  
  
Ignoring all the activity around them, Draco waltzed down the unmade road with his hands in his jacket's pockets and a bored expression on his face. Next to him, Harry kept his eyes fixed on Hermione's back and tried to school his face into some sort of neutral expression, but he suspected that he probably just looked stony. It wasn't like he could help it--he certainly wasn't going to start waving and signing autographs.  
  
They finally passed out of the village, leaving the whispers behind them, and started across the wide, quiet fields. It seemed that the news of them travelled faster than they themselves did, though, because as they approached the school grounds, a huge bear of a man, barely visible beneath his grizzled beard and his great well-patched coat, came bustling toward them. He roared in a deep voice that cracked more than a little, "'ARRY POTTER!"  
  
Harry quailed as Hagrid came rushing toward him. The old half-giant caught him up in a bone-crushing hug, the likes of which Harry hadn't felt in years, and somewhere beneath all the pain and shame and fear that had buried his past, Harry felt a little flare of warmth. His arms came up almost automatically, to awkwardly pat Hagrid's back in return.  
  
Hagrid was sobbing great crocodile tears, as he always had, and chiding Harry, "Yeh daft child, Harry. All these years, withou' a single word from yeh!" He shook the thin man who--even fully grown--still only came up to his chest, and then finally released Harry, stepping back to get a proper look at him.  
  
"Hello, Hagrid," Harry greeted his old friend weakly. "Though I'm hardly a child anymore."  
  
The half-giant chuckled and slapped Harry on the shoulder, sending him careening into Draco, who caught him automatically. "Not hardly, eh? Yes, yeh've become quite the man--older than yer father was, last time I saw 'im."  
  
Harry muttered an apology as Malfoy pushed him back upright. The blond had been watching this reunion with a blank expression, and Harry belatedly realised that there would be no such warm welcome for the former Death Eater. He looked back towards Hermione and Hagrid, standing across from them. Smiling weakly, he admitted, "It's nice to see you, Hagrid."  
  
Snuffling wetly, Hagrid slung a heavy arm over Hermione's shoulders and the small woman staggered slightly under its weight. But then she simply smiled sweetly up at the groundskeeper and Harry was glad to see that some things hadn't changed over the years. Hagrid cleared his throat gruffly and said, "Well, I'll jes' see yeh all up to the castle then. But yeh be sure to come by mine later, Harry. I'll even fix us summat to eat." He gave the silent Malfoy a curious look, then hustled them all up to the school's gate.  
  
There were students here and there on the grounds, some on their ways to classes, some just enjoying the last of the summer's warmth. They looked curiously at the two Muggle-dressed men walking with their professors, but most did not recognise them for who they were. Everyone still knew who Harry Potter was, of course, but if they'd ever seen a photo of him, it would have probably been of a skinny little fourteen year old, wearing thick round glasses and posing with his fellow Triwizard champions years and years ago. The students were too young to connect this grown man with that boy. And most of them would know nothing more of Draco Malfoy than the way that his family name came up in the whispered conversations of adults. Only one or two seventh years set up whispering among themselves furtively.  
  
The quartet continued on the path up to the great front doors and then Harry found himself inside the shadowy halls of Hogwarts once more. Hagrid said goodbye to them near the door and, after exhorting a promise that they would visit him again later, the large man left again to get ready for his morning classes. Harry asked Hermione curiously, "Don't you have any classes yourself? Wait--what is it that you even teach?"  
  
Hermione smiled an almost wicked grin and told him, "Defence against the Dark Arts, if you'd believe it. And I'll have you know that I've held the job for three years now and pretty much destroyed the rumour that the position is cursed."  
  
Harry blinked in surprise and exclaimed, " _You're_ teaching DADA?" Of course, she had been second in the class after him. And she'd experienced plenty of Dark Arts up close and personal, being best friends with Harry Potter.  
  
She smiled a bit sadly and explained, "We were having a real hard time filling the job. After the war, no one wanted to have anything to do with Dark Arts, even its defence! Plus that silly 'curse' was keeping quite a few people away." She led them through the halls, which were mostly empty now that morning classes had begun. "And I will have class in a bit, with my third years, but I'm free until the end of the hour."  
  
As he followed Hermione, Harry shook his head in amazement. She really was a professor. She was all grown up and teaching young witches and wizards at Hogwarts. He glanced at Malfoy, who was still walking next to him, then nudged the blond with his elbow. "Hey," he whispered, "do you suddenly feel embarrassingly useless and inadequate?"  
  
Draco grinned for the first time since leaving the Green Dragon. He gifted Harry with a cocky smirk and said, " _I_ am inadequate at _nothing_." His grey eyes glinted evilly, but then he let up. "Though I do know what you mean." He leaned in closer and Harry tilted his own head toward him automatically. Draco asked in very posh accent, which reminded Harry of a totally inappropriate Stephen Fry, "So, Mr Potter, if you were not a completely useless tosser, but a professor at Hogwarts, what subject would you teach?"  
  
Harry burst into laughter, unable to deal with the accent coming out of Malfoy's wicked mouth. Hermione glanced over her shoulder at the two men, who were whispering and hitting one another. She could catch a couple of words but more than wondering what it was they were talking about together, she mostly wondered _why_.  
  
They arrived at the same old defence classroom where they had all taken classes and Hermione let them into her office, which had gone through several different incarnations during the various reigns of Lockhart, Lupin, the fake Moody, Umbridge, and Snape. Now it looked something like the way it had with Lupin, but less shabby and with a lot more bookshelves. Harry was surprised to see old moving photos of himself and his fellow Gryffindors hanging on the walls. Hermione stepped around the desk and sat herself down in the high-backed chair that looked nearly as old as the castle. Harry dropped unsurely into one of the other chairs, while Draco walked around examining the books on the shelves.  
  
"Now then," Hermione said, settling into her professorial role as easily as she had her chair, "I think we need to make a plan of what we're going to do. I already agreed that I would look into Malfoy's...condition. We also need to determine if someone really has been using magic on you, Harry, and why. And now that people know that you're back, you'll need to figure out how you are going to deal with the public. I suggest that--"  
  
"Wait, wait, wait. Just hold on for a moment, Hermione." Harry stared at her with wide green eyes and shoved his hair out of his face. They had been reunited for barely an hour and already Hermione was taking charge of his life. "Deal with the public? Why should I have to do anything like that?"  
  
Hermione's logic had only grown more commanding over the years. "Now that the press will know that you are still alive--which they will surely have already had countless owls from Hogsmeade confirming--they will not stop hounding you until they get a story out of it. You know how they are--you dealt with them for years." She shook her head at him dismissively and told him, "You're going to have to deal with the world. You might as well be prepared. We can come up with some sort of statement."  
  
Harry's brows came down over his eyes and he spoke in a quiet voice, "I don't want to appear in any papers. I don't want the Wizarding world to know anything about me. And I don't want to be any part of it either." He looked up at her, this woman who his best friend had become. "Look, Hermione. I really am glad to have met you again and to find out that you're fine. But the only reason I came here to Hogsmeade was because I wanted to know what Malfoy was up to, meeting with you." Chewing on the inside of his lip, he stared into her eyes and told her bluntly, "I had no plans of meeting with you, today or ever."  
  
Hermione visibly swallowed and her face seemed to waver for a moment, but she replied in a resolute tone, "That may be the case, but now that people know that you are here, you're not going to be able to simply disappear again without any ramifications. Especially since people saw you with Malfoy. Even if they can't find you, everyone knows where to find him. Criminals' information is kept on record."  
  
Draco spun around, but when he opened his mouth, his insults were aimed at Harry. He didn't seem to have taken any note of Hermione's jibe. "Potter!" he exclaimed. "How do you always manage to royally screw with my life? Are you telling me that I'm now going to have reporters parked outside my home, looking for juicy information about you?! Because you'd better believe I'll tell them everything I know. _Everything_."  
  
"Oh, Malfoy, shut up and have a drink, why don't you?" Harry said dismissively, quite sure that he wasn't really that angry. He probably would enjoy making up stories to tell any reporters.  
  
Draco smiled and winked at him. "I like the way you think. Drinks all around would make this situation seem a lot better."  
  
Hermione looked shocked and said, "I've got classes in..." She consulted her watch. "In twenty minutes! So, no, there will be absolutely no drinking in here!" Things were not going at all how she might have expected, if she had ever expected Harry to show up in her office.  
  
She sighed and even her glossy curls seemed to have frizzed a bit. "Look, we're not getting anywhere and I should probably have you two clear out before my class. Why don't I move you to my rooms for now, and I'll meet you as soon as I'm done?"  
  
"I want to go to the library," Draco said peevishly.  
  
Hermione sighed yet again. She thought she would soon be making a habit of it and asked, "Will you at least put some robes on?"  
  
"No-o," the blond said slowly, "I don't think I will."  
  
Hermione threw up her hands. Sick of arguing, she bustled the two men out of her office and up several floors to the library entrance. She marched them straight up to the librarian's desk--Madame Pince was still there, still looking impossibly old and cranky--and explained that they were visiting for research purposes. As soon as she was done, she hurried back towards her classroom, calling back to them, "I'll meet you after, so don't wander off anywhere!"  
  
The two of them stood and watched her go. They looked at one another, then Draco shrugged and headed toward the Restricted Section. Harry glanced at Madame Pince, but she had already gone back to sorting the books on her desk. He noticed the few students in the library watching him and quickly set off after Malfoy.  
  
The blond was already in the Restricted Section and pulling titles off the shelves. Harry asked in a half-whisper, since they were in the library after all, "So should I help with something?"  
  
"I doubt you could much," Draco scoffed, but he still handed Harry a couple of books to carry. Then he paused and looked at Harry thoughtfully. "Actually," he corrected himself, "there is something you may be able to do." And then he started explaining to Harry a spell that would search all the books on the shelves for certain key words or phrases. They came up with a list and then Harry was set to work. As soon as he finished with each key, Draco would collect the books that had reacted to the spell and looked likely. When they had finished with one whole wall of shelving and had as many books as they could carry, they set themselves up at one of the many half-hidden pitted and scratched reading tables.  
  
Draco opened his first book. Considerate enough of the environment to use a low voice, he said pointedly, "So when Granger said that she'd look into this for me..." He rolled his eyes up to frown at Harry as if it were his fault, which it may have well been. "She really meant that she would let _me_ look into it."  
  
"Looks like it," Harry mumbled to himself as he flipped through the old parchment pages.  
  
Skimming through the lines of nearly illegible script, Draco pointed out, "You seem to be handling your re-entry quite well."  
  
"Ummm, I'm not sure it's really hit me yet."  
  
Draco tried to suppress a patronising grin, then gave up. Snorting in muffled laughter, he said, "Good luck with that."  
  
Before Harry could retort, the panelled door to the Restricted Section slid open. A young woman in her mid or late twenties walked in and headed straight into the stacks, not even noticing the two men at the reading table. She was rather pretty in a slightly foreign way. Draco watched her go curiously and moments later she came back out clutching an old volume. She would have walked out again without ever realising that she'd had an audience, but Draco chose that moment to none too subtly clear his throat. She started and turned in surprise toward the two men, while Harry shot Malfoy a chary look. What was the blond up to now?  
  
"Hello." Draco spoke in a mildly pleasant voice. "Are you one of the staff here?"  
  
The woman blinked, heavy lashes coming down over her dark eyes. "Ye-es," she said slowly, "I am Marianthi Fotiadis. I teach Divination here." Her speech was coloured with a distinctly Greek accent and Draco began to smile. The accent made her words sound warm, round, and inviting, rather like the rest of her.  
  
"Divination?" he asked, sounding terribly fascinated. He turned to Harry. "Didn't you take Divination when you were in school, Potter?"  
  
Harry stared at him warily, quite sure he wouldn't like whatever direction this was going in, but he answered to be polite. "Yes, for a couple of years. Never took to it really."  
  
The woman named Marianthi now had a hand at her mouth and she exclaimed, her dark eyes fixed on Harry, "Oh, you must be--I'm sorry, but I heard rumours that Harry Potter had come to Hogwarts today." Draco's smile grew.  
  
Harry muttered under his breath, "Sure you didn't have a premonition about it?" But he was shut up by Draco kicking him under the table.  
  
"That's right," the blond practically purred, "this is the infamous hothead himself, Harry Potter. And you can call me Draco. Perhaps we'll see you at dinner this evening."  
  
The woman smiled, her eyes drifting back onto Harry again. "I'd like that very much," she said, her accent rolling her words warmly. She gave an impish smile that was only a bit too girlish for her age, then excused herself. She slid out of the Restricted Section with one last backwards glance at Harry, and then she was gone.  
  
Draco immediately started laughing and he told Harry gleefully, "Oh, she _likes_ you." Harry stared at him like he was mad, but Draco continued on unfazed, "I've just found my entertainment for however long I'm here."  
  
"And that would be?" Harry asked icily.  
  
"Getting the two of you together, of course."  
  
Harry's mouth dropped open and he said witheringly, "You can't actually be suggesting..." But it was obvious that Malfoy was. "What if I'm not even interested in her?" he asked disbelievingly.  
  
Draco quickly ticked off, "She's pretty, she's got a cute accent, _she's_ interested, and she's at least a couple of years older than you--never discount experience, my friend. You'll become interested."  
  
Scoffing, Harry pointed out, " _You're_ telling _me_ about experience? You haven't any yourself!"  
  
Waving away what he considered to be minor details, Draco sized up the man sitting across from him. "Oh, this is going to be _funny._ "  
  
"You're insane. You _do_ realise this, right?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "I've got to entertain myself somehow."  
  
"By playing with other people's lives, like they're some sort of...some sort of _dolls_ or something?!" Harry exclaimed, forgetting to keep his voice down.  
  
The blond simply shrugged again, still with a conniving glint in his eye. Harry's mouth gaped open but he could see that there was no getting through to Malfoy. Grimacing at his bad luck, he said grumpily, "Read your books, dammit." At least if they found something Harry could get out of here and leave Malfoy to find some other source of entertainment.  
  
They continued to browse their piles, Harry interrupting every five or ten minutes to ask if something was significant. Not that it ever was. They went through more than fifteen piles of books and seven more trips back to the stacks before Hermione showed up again. She dashed into the Restricted Section and, seeing Harry bent over a stack of magical tomes, felt a pang of something bittersweet. It was as if she'd walked back into her school days--though some horrible twist on her school days in which Malfoy was also present and demonstrably not trying to curse anyone.  
  
She hurried over and spoke in a hushed tone, "Sorry I've been so long. And I've only a couple minutes until my next class, I'm afraid. But after lunch, I have just one more afternoon class and then I'll be free for the rest of the day."  
  
Harry gave her a hint of a smile, while Draco pulled a face behind the book he was holding up to read. "That's all right. Why don't we just plan to meet after your last class, then? I was thinking I'd have to visit Hagrid at lunch time."  
  
"Are you sure it's all right?" she asked anxiously, practically wringing her hands. "Oh, if only I could get someone else to take my classes--but there's no one else at Hogwarts these days who knows the subject."  
  
A brilliant grin curling across his face, Malfoy lowered his book and suggested kindly, "I could take your classes. I know _loads_ about the Dark Arts. And then you and Potter could take your own sweet time, reading useless texts and catching up on gossip."  
  
Hermione shot him a quashing glare and said, "That's quite all right, thank you." She turned back to Harry and found him fighting down a smile at the blond's antics.  
  
"Hermione," he told her easily, "don't worry about it. We'll talk tonight." He sounded a bit self-mocking as he said, "I won't run away this time."  
  
She seemed to believe him and, with several doubtful looks and rushed promises to meet later, Hermione disappeared as suddenly as she had come. Draco watched her go and then asked, "So we're going to that great oaf's hut?"  
  
"We?" Harry repeated, looking across at Malfoy with raised eyebrows.  
  
Draco rested his elbows on the tabletop, his face cradled in his hands. "You still don't really appreciate the situation, do you?" Harry looked nonplussed and he continued, "You are stuck with me, Potter. Now that everyone knows that I'm here--which they will, since being accompanied by your big head has become the story of the millennium--it's only a matter of time before I find myself at the wrong end of an angry, pointy wand. And you had better believe that when that happens, I'll be throwing _you_ headfirst into the path of any oncoming curses." He gave Harry a saccharine smile, sweet and utterly fake. "I can hardly protect myself, after all."  
  
And so it was that Harry found himself walking down to Hagrid's hut with Draco in tow, as lunchtime drew near. They arrived a bit early and hung back as Hagrid finished up a Care of Magical Creatures class with a group of Hufflepuffs. Harry was pleased and surprised to see that Hagrid's classes had improved since he had been a student--though it hardly seemed possible that they could have got any worse.  
  
Leaning on the fence of the paddock, Draco asked in a low voice, "How much would you bet that Granger plans his lessons?"  
  
Harry blinked but as soon as he thought about it, he realised that the new informative tone of Hagrid's lecture did reek of the type of lesson Hermione would have loved. "Well, at least the kids are getting something out of it. Unless you want to inflict flobberworms on another generation."  
  
Draco gave a delicate feigned shiver. "Ooh, I had nearly blocked them from my memory." He eyed the students appraisingly. "But it's a rite of passage. They have to put in their time dealing with flobberworms and blast-ended skrewts, too. We can't have gone through all that for nothing. We'll have to have a word with your friend."  
  
Harry laughed and they watched as the class broke up and the students began tumbling back towards the castle for lunch, staring openly at the two strange men in Muggle clothing as they passed them. Hagrid had noticed them as well and came bustling over, wiping some suspicious looking substance off his hands and onto his ragged jacket as he did. "'Arry!" he greeted the black-haired man warmly, seeming content to only glance at Malfoy, "I'm so glad yeh made it--though I wasn't expectin' yeh so soon, truth be told."  
  
He slapped Harry on the shoulder, again nearly bringing the full-grown man to his knees, and then propelled him towards his little hut. Draco followed behind, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. As Hagrid stepped into the one-roomed hut and held the door open, he explained, "I was jes' plannin' to have sausages for lunch, but we could nip down to the pub for summat, if yeh'd prefer. Or go up to th' school."  
  
"Sausages would be fine," Harry said quickly, glancing at Malfoy, who had followed him into the small room and was standing nonchalantly by the door. "That is, if you have enough for all of us." He gave a small, sheepish smile and Draco looked around the room with mild curiosity, unable to recall ever being inside the gamekeeper's hut before.  
  
Hagrid nodded his big, hairy head and said agreeably, "Aye, there'll be enough fer three, at least." He banged a large skillet onto the fire that was almost always burning on his black and greasy hearth. "So Malfoy is staying as well?" he asked in a voice that was too neutral to be neutral.  
  
Harry watched as Hagrid began breaking off sausage links and plopping them in the pan. "Yes, Malfoy and I will both be here at Hogwarts for a little while, doing some research."  
  
Having filled a heavy pot with water and hung it on the groaning chain over his fire, Hagrid reached for his incongruous pink umbrella, which was propped up against one of the hut's walls, but then he stopped. He looked at Malfoy from the corner of his eye, then asked Harry, "'Arry, would yeh mind boiling some water for me?"  
  
Harry sighed, then pulled out his wand and quickly cast a heating spell on the iron pot. The water inside immediately began boiling and Hagrid tipped into it a whole basket of garden peas. He let the peas boil, as he rolled the sausages in the frying pan. They began to sizzle and brown.  
  
"I don't know where we'll be staying, though," Harry said thoughtfully. He turned to Malfoy and asked, "How long do you have that room for? The one in the village?"  
  
Draco spoke up for the first time since he'd come inside. "As long as I need it, I suppose. But I wouldn't think you'd want to stay there. There's probably already a cadre of reporters in Hogsmeade now, waiting and hoping that you'll leave the hallowed grounds of Hogwarts, where they can't come without permission. You'd better ask Granger if you can't stay here at the castle."  
  
"And you?" Harry asked, glancing at Draco's muggle dress pointedly.  
  
Draco just shrugged, and went back to his silent examination of the room. The only sound in the room was the hiss and pop of sausages frying in their own juices. Harry turned back to Hagrid awkwardly, saying, "So, you're still teaching Care of Magical Creatures. I mean, obviously. How's that going?" Wincing at his own failed conversation attempts, Harry dropped into a seat at the roughly-hewn table. Draco followed suit and straddled a wobbly stool, proceeding to rock back and forth on its unstable legs.  
  
Hagrid glanced over, eyeing Malfoy when he realised that it was the blond who was causing the thunking noise. Draco desisted and, with no change in expression, pulled a small paperback book from his back pocket and began to read. Harry almost cringed in embarrassment, as if he were responsible for the other man's behaviour. Luckily Hagrid spoke up, explaining, "Yeah, I'm still teachin'. Professor McGonagall has been a real help--she's a fine headmistress, that's for sure. Though a fair sight more strict than ol' Dumbledore was, rest his soul."  
  
Harry was surprised to hear the easy warmth in Hagrid's voice. Hagrid had always adored and idolised Dumbledore, but it seemed even he had finally come to terms with the old wizard's death. He continued, "An' Hermione is always giving me helpful input an' feedback, tellin' me what works best with the students and what she enjoyed mos' in my classes." Without looking up from his book, Draco gave Harry a swift, light kick under the table, as if to say 'Told you so.'  
  
"She even has me bring in Dark creatures fer her classes sometimes," Hagrid explained brightly, a tinge of blatant pride in his voice. "She really appreciates my knowledge and expertise wi' some of th' more _unusual_ beasties."  
  
Harry nodded appreciatively and, watching as Hagrid tipped the sausages onto a large serving plate, asked politely, "And is Grawp still living near here?"  
  
Hagrid used the sausage drippings to stir up a quick, lumpy gravy and then brought everything over to the table. He set stone crockery in front of each of his guests, then served them up heaping mounds of peas, several large sausages each and poured gravy over the whole lot. Finally he served himself and explained, "Grawp didn't make it through the war. But he fell defendin' the castle and I think even he was proud of that, at the end. He'd really grown quite attached to this place."  
  
Harry paused, fork poised over his peas. "Oh. I, uh, I'm so sorry to hear... I had no idea..."  
  
"Nah, well, yeh couldn't 'ave, really. Wasn't in any papers, since he weren't suppose' to be here anyway." Harry sniffled roughly and then gestured toward the food, telling them, "Well, eat up then! Yeh've got to get some proper food in yeh, Harry! I'd swear yeh haven't grown since you were sixteen!"  
  
Draco had at least put down his book and he began to eat with only the quietest of happy sighs. This was the first food he'd had all day, of course. And as for Harry, who hadn't had anything to eat in nearly twenty-four hours, he dove into the meal headfirst, clearing his plate in less than five minutes and causing Hagrid to laughingly dole him out another serving. They ate without much conversation, Hagrid making occasional small talk about life at the castle as the two young men murmured responses while trying to eat holes in their plates.  
  
Finally when all three could eat no more--which was no small feat, considering that one of them was a half-giant--they pushed their plates away in content silence. Harry rubbed his stomach happily and Draco glanced between him and their former professor. The blond spoke up suddenly, "That was lovely. Now I'll piss off for a bit. You two have plenty to talk about and I...well, I just don't care."  
  
He stood up and walked out the door without saying anything more. Harry stared at the closed door until Hagrid said, "If yeh don't mind me askin', Harry..."  
  
"About Malfoy?" Harry said tiredly, realising that he was going to get this question a lot and that he had no answer to it.  
  
Hagrid nodded and asked, "How did th' two of yeh come to Hogwarts together?"  
  
Harry chewed on his lip. He wondered what Malfoy was doing outside now. Probably eavesdropping, he thought. He'd been the one too scared to go far without Harry as a shield, after all. "Malfoy came here to meet Hermione. I just followed him. I didn't mean to come. Not here."  
  
"Yeh didn't know tha' he was comin' to Hogwarts, then?"  
  
"No, I knew. Or I think I knew."  
  
"But yeh say you didn't mean to come?"  
  
Harry fell silent. Standing outside, leaning against the heavy wooden door, Draco softly laughed. He pushed himself away from the door and set off walking toward the pens where Hagrid kept his most recent 'pets'. Ignoring as usual the idea of others having privacy and property rights, he let himself into the menagerie. He opened one of the sheds and found nothing more interesting than a nest of bowtruckles. He moved onto the next and pulled the doors open, then gasped. Curled into a shadowy corner was a sinewy lion with a woman's face. His breath whooshed out of him in an impressed sigh and he said quietly, "Good job, halfwit. What a catch."  
  
The sphinx blinked at him lazily and then perked up. She purred, "You're not bad yourself." She tilted her head from one side to the other, as if trying to examine him from different angles, and her thick mane of hair fell about her golden face. "There's something of a mystery about you." She stretched and then stood up on her four feet, padding closer to the blond. "I like mysteries."  
  
Draco swallowed, suddenly wondering if he hadn't got himself into a bad situation. He could see the claws that barely peeked out from her furry paws. "How am I a mystery?" he asked, still standing with his hands on the doors' handles, ready to slam them shut if he needed to.  
  
The sinewy beast paced in front of him, sniffing at the air curiously. "You smell like a wizard, but you don't smell of magic." She sat on her haunches and stared up into his sharp face. As she spoke, she flexed her paws and he saw her claws dig into the dirt. "But you don't smell like a half-blood or even a muggle-born child. I've smelt enough of them here to know the difference." Smiling up at him disarmingly, she asked, "Are you one of those magicless wizards? A 'squib'?"  
  
Draco frowned. "I don't think so." He grinned back at her and said, "I'm something new."  
  
She returned his wicked grin. "Something new? Do tell."  
  
Less concerned that she would tear his throat out, he sat on the dirt ground as well. "First you tell me something about yourself."  
  
A purr rumbled deep in the sphinx's chest and she playfully batted at him with a heavy paw. "You're too clever for your own good."  
  
He winked and reprimanded her lightly, "I asked you to tell me something about yourself, not about me. I already know that I'm too clever for my own good." He looked at her thoughtfully and asked, "Why are you here?"  
  
She lifted one paw to her face and licked it with a large flat tongue, which surely shouldn't come from a human-looking face. "I'm here as part of a deal. The wizard Hagrid says he will find me a place to live free, if I prance around for a couple of his classes."  
  
"Did he capture you?" Draco asked curiously, but she grinned again, revealing her long canines.  
  
"No, my turn. Tell me how you are 'something new.'"  
  
Draco moved to lean against one side of the door frame. The sphinx curled against the other side, rubbing her back against the door jamb as if to scratch a hard-to-reach itch. "I was a wizard," Draco started.  
  
"I wasn't aware it was something one could quit," the sphinx pointed out.  
  
"Perhaps I was fired then." He smiled and she watched him with deep, golden eyes. "I was a wizard, but I had my magic taken away from me."  
  
"Taken away?" she repeated, then sniffed the air delicately. "Hmm, perhaps."  
  
Draco interrupted and said, "I've thought of something else. What is your name? Do you have names?"  
  
"We do have names, but they are too valuable for small game like you." Draco rolled his eyes as she rubbed her back against the door frame again and sang to herself, "What to ask? What to ask?"  
  
A large shadow fell over them and Draco looked up to find Harry and Hagrid standing in front of the shed. He hadn't even noticed their approach and he started. Harry asked in an exasperated tone, "Do you play this game with everyone you meet, Malfoy?"  
  
Hagrid looked slightly spooked and he growled warningly at the sphinx, "And jes' what mischief are yeh up to now, missy?"  
  
She smiled mysteriously but got up and slunk back into her shadowy corner. Draco frowned. He got up and brushed the dirt from himself, asking Harry, "So does this mean it's back to the books?"  
  
"I had assumed you'd be eager to get back. Since this is your research and all," Harry said pointedly. Draco just shrugged. Harry waved goodbye and the two of them headed off back toward the castle. Hagrid glanced into the sphinx's shadowy shed and then shook his head in amazement, watching the two young men walk away.  
  
  
  
  
They had resumed their work in the restricted section and gone uninterrupted until Hermione showed up again, at half past four. She dropped tiredly into a chair at their table, her satchel falling to the floor next to her and spilling several rolled scrolls of parchment. She sighed and looked at the leather bag resentfully. "I said that I'd have these essays back by tomorrow, but that was before I expected to have Harry Potter resurrected from the dead."  
  
Harry gave Draco a pathetic look and the blond rolled his eyes. He said in a forced tone, "Don't worry about it, Granger. Potter and I can handle the research for now. So do your own work." He shot Harry a narrow look and mouthed, 'Happy?' Harry smirked in reply.  
  
Hermione sighed again and pulled her bag onto the desk, letting the scrolls pour out onto its scratched top. "Thanks," she murmured in a bleak tone. She grabbed the nearest scroll and flattened it out on the table, muttering over it, "I just can't believe the rubbish that some of my students hand in." This of course led to Harry and Draco pulling out scrolls as well and reading out the worst samples until they were both crying with laughter and even Hermione was trying to suppress her snickers.  
  
"Oh," Hermione said breathlessly, "it's not at all proper of me to laugh at my students' efforts." She looked down at yet another uninspired essay and corrected herself, "Or at least I shouldn't do it where they might overhear."  
  
Draco snorted but put the essays back in their pile. He pulled his book back in front of him and asked, "Have you thought of a place to stash Potter? I'm rather sure that if he leaves the school's grounds, he'll be mobbed by the press."  
  
"Yes, I agree." Hermione paused in her correction and sucked on the end of her quill. "I've already spoken with the Headmistress and she of course has no problem with Harry staying here at the castle." She looked at Draco curiously. "Are you planning to stay in town, then?"  
  
"I had assumed so, yes."  
  
"You didn't consider staying here as well?"  
  
Draco said carefully, "I didn't presume that I would be welcomed."  
  
Hermione sucked on her lower lip thoughtfully. She admitted, "I asked the Headmistress and she did have her reservations. However once I explained the situation, she was willing to have you stay at the castle as well. It will reduce the gossip, if no one can get at you either."  
  
She set her pen down, clearly giving up on her essay marking for now. "But that can be decided yet. It does bring us to the point of the media, though. Harry, have you thought at all about a statement?"  
  
"No," Harry said bluntly. "I haven't."  
  
Hermione sighed and seemed torn over wanting to get it done right then and the pile of essays waiting in front of her. "Fine," she said finally, "we will do it later. Let me finish this marking and you can think over what you want to say."  
  
They kept working--Hermione on her marking, Draco and Harry on the research--until time came for dinner. Hermione bustled the two men up from the table, sending their books back to the shelves with a quick wave of her wand. Then they left the restricted section and the library. In the halls of the school, trickles of students soon turned into a huge river of children and adolescents headed down to the Great Hall for dinner. And all of them watched the three adults curiously, until they turned off into a separate corridor. The threesome arrived at the small side door which they'd always seen professors and guests come through when they'd all been students themselves. Hermione opened the door and stepped through, holding it open for the two visiting men. Through the open doorway, Harry could see the huge of mass of students at their house tables, all buzzing with extra curious energy tonight. At the Head Table and looking towards him now were Professor--now Headmistress--McGonagall, Professors Flitwick, Sinistra, Sprout, and Vector, Madam Hooch, Hagrid, and the new woman, Marianthi. Harry froze.  
  
From behind him, Draco whispered, "It finally hit you?"  
  
Harry agreed breathlessly, "It finally hit me."  
  



	15. In Which There Is Flying

**Chapter Fifteen**   
_In Which There Is Flying_   
  
IGNORING HARRY, WHO WAS STILL frozen in front of the door, Draco pushed his way around the other man and strode after Hermione. After a moment's hesitation, Harry followed as well. They took the seats that Hermione gestured to, between her and Hagrid, at one end of the long High Table. Once seated, Draco critically examined the china and the silver, while Harry looked out at the sea of young faces, every one of which seemed to be staring directly back at him. When he had been a student, he'd never thought about how awkward it could feel to sit and eat in front of several hundred students. He felt overexposed and he ducked his head toward Malfoy and muttered, "I think I've lost my appetite."  
  
"Stop being dramatic," Draco told him sternly. But then he smirked and ruined the picture of being a proper grown-up. He glanced down the table and saw most of the staff looking in their direction as well. He elbowed Harry and whispered, "Your new girlfriend is looking this way."  
  
Harry shushed him just as McGonagall stood up and called for attention. Other than her hair now being more decidedly white than the salt-and-pepper Harry remembered, she hadn't changed dramatically over the past six years. Her clipped Scottish accent and commanding tones certainly hadn't changed, as she addressed her students. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I apologise for the delay to your meal, but I wished to quickly introduce two visitors who you will be seeing around the castle--and may have already." She turned to the two young men and Harry met her eyes for the first time. He was relieved to see the hint of a smile ease her stern expression and he was sure it showed on his face as well, because that hint grew as she introduced him in a warm tone. "It's my pleasure to introduce to you one of my former students, formerly of Gryffindor house, Mr Harry Potter."  
  
There was a momentary whispered frenzy, which seemed to be mostly choruses of, 'I told you so!' Then someone began to applaud and it grew to a thundering wave of noise. Harry stared at the crowd, slightly wide-eyed, but nodded in acknowledgement.  
  
As the room began to quiet, McGonagall continued, "Along with Mr Potter, we have Mr Draco Malfoy, another former student, from Slytherin house." This time there was an even longer pause for whispers, as students spread gossip about just who the good-looking blond was. Draco raised his glass to the students and winked saucily, causing scattered laughter and hesitant applause, though it didn't even begin to compare to the ovation that Harry had received.  
  
"Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy will be staying here at the castle for a time as guests. Please treat them with the same respect that you would any of your professors." With that, she resumed her seat and immediately food appeared on all the tables.  
  
As the attention turned away from them and onto the food, Draco complained to Harry, "Why did she have to make it sound like I was accompanying you? When _really_ you are the one who followed me here."  
  
Harry turned his attention towards the blond, happy to ignore the crowd in front of them. Although they'd only been re-acquainted for a week or so, Malfoy was still a remnant of his 'normal' life and was less intimidating to Harry than the wizards and witches surrounding him. "Get over yourself, Malfoy," Harry said with happy nastiness, as he began to cut into his roast beef.  
  
"I will not," Malfoy retorted hotly. "My family used to inspire fear and hatred everywhere we went. I will not be your _sidekick_." He shook his head in disgust. "How the hell did a Potter become more well-known than a Malfoy? Other than that saving-the-world thing."  
  
"Well," Harry pointed out, around a mouthful of mashed potato, " _winking_ at the students probably isn't helping 'inspire fear and hatred.'"  
  
Draco frowned at him. " _Well_ , if I can't be famous for scaring the snot out of them, at least I'll be famous for being more charming and better-looking than you, scarface."  
  
Harry automatically shook his head, ensuring that his long fringe still covered his scar. Hermione had overheard much of their conversation and was still completely baffled by the rapport the two of them seemed to share, but she didn't want to ask anything now, not in front of everyone. Hermione knew her questions would have to wait until after dinner, and she stabbed at a Brussels sprout in frustration, impaling it on her fork.  
  
  
  
  
Dinner lasted nearly an hour, but finally Hermione was able to rush her two guests away without any of them getting trapped in conversation with the rest of the staff. They ended up in an unfamiliar--to Harry and Draco anyway--section of the castle, where all the professors had their rooms, and Hermione closeted them away in the unused set of rooms meant for the history professor.  
  
Although the empty rooms had already fallen into disuse during Binns' long years of lecturing about goblin rebellions, they were now empty for a different reason. Binns had disappeared when Dumbledore had and no one knew if the ghost had simply moved on to a new haunting place or moved on to the everafter. As the new Headmistress, McGonagall had found herself in need of a history expert and she'd had the rooms fixed up again for what should have been the new history lecturer, but it had turned out to be a futile move.  
  
The first applicant had been an inexperienced young thing and had barely lasted two months. At first, the students weren't intentionally trying to run their teachers out. It was simply that all the years with Binns had left them quite used to sleeping, eating and chatting during lectures, altogether paying no regard to the professor attempting to run the class. But after they had got rid of one professor, it became a sort of game--to scare off history professors. Currently (and unsurprisingly) Slytherin was in the lead, having had four professors walk out either during or immediately after one of their classes. Gryffindor came second, having run out three professors, and Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were only responsible for one each.  
  
The latest hire had only made it a week, as the students were now quite expert at their torture. It was only the second week of school and already history lectures had been put on hiatus, until McGonagall could find another teacher to try for the position. It was her greatest shame as Headmistress, but the students were not intimidated by any punishment she had meted out and they all acted perfectly fine in their other classes. Only History of Magic had been singled out for their antics. At any rate, it left a conveniently empty set of rooms for them to use, for however long it might take McGonagall to find another candidate for the position.  
  
For now, Harry was perched on a rather stiff settee in the small sitting room, Hermione across the room at the old-fashioned writing desk. She had a sheaf of fresh parchment in front of her, and a quill in hand. Draco was squatting on his haunches in front of the fire, a bottle of wine in one hand which he had managed to take away from the High Table without her noticing. He took a swig from it, watching the flames.  
  
"So," Hermione said yet again, "here's where we're at. The press has already heard that you're back at Hogwarts and that you are with Draco Malfoy. They are going to want some sort of explanation for where you've been for the past five years since Voldemort's fall. They'll surely be making up rumours about how you might be involved with Malfoy. And they will probably redouble their efforts to find out where you regularly live, so that they can set up a constant Potter-watch and report on every detail of your life, as if anyone cares."  
  
She tapped the end of her quill against her chin thoughtfully. "So let's start with an explanation of what you're doing back here. I don't imagine you'll want to admit to doing research and that's why I asked McGonagall not to say anything about it. If the students realise that's what you are doing, it'll only be a matter of time before the _Prophet_ reporters start bribing them for information. And I don't imagine Malfoy wants the _Prophet_ to reveal just what it is that you're researching."  
  
"Not particularly," Draco agreed, spinning the wine bottle on its base, his fingers wrapped loosely around its neck. "But I would be surprised if we manage to hide it for long. The Ravenclaws or Slytherins will probably begin to notice that we're always in the restricted section and they'll be sure to get curious."  
  
Hermione nodded. "That's true, but you'll only be in the restricted section for another several days, I would guess. After that we'll move to the vault." Draco and Harry were both looking at her in surprise and she asked blandly, "Well, don't you think you'll be done going through the restricted section with a couple more days' work?"  
  
Harry looked toward Draco and the blond slowly nodded. "Yes, easily. There's not much there that I haven't read in my own library. What's this about a _vault_ , though?"  
  
Hermione smiled, clearly enjoying holding the secrets for once. "You surely didn't think that we would put all of our most dangerous and valuable books out where any student could sneak into the restricted section and read them? No, most of Hogwarts' _real_ library is hidden from public eyes."  
  
"Well," Draco said, nonplussed, "that does make it easier to hide what we're doing, I suppose. But then what is our reason for coming out of hiding and showing up in the middle of Hogwarts bloody School of bleeding Witchcraft and Wizardry?"  
  
They both turned their eyes on Harry, who had his mouth clamped shut. He shrugged and finally suggested, "Can't we just be visiting friends?"  
  
Resisting the urge to make a snide comment about the possibility of Malfoy having friends, Hermione pulled a face and switched tactics. "Well, why don't we come up with your explanation for Malfoy?"  
  
Choking on the wine he'd been in the process of pouring down his throat, Draco said sharply, "You know, I'd really appreciate it if people would stop describing me as some sort of luggage that Potter just brought along with him. _He_ followed _me_ here. _Him_."  
  
"Well, then, would _you_ like to make a statement about why you're here at Hogwarts, Malfoy?" Hermione asked in a similarly sharp voice.  
  
"I don't care." He waffled for a moment, then suggested, "I could be visiting family. I'm guaranteed to be related to at least one of the little rotters, with all the ties my family has. For god's sake, I'm even related to the Weasleys if you go back a couple of generations."  
  
Harry laughed at him. Draco frowned. "Shut up, Potter. They're _your_ friends."  
  
Hermione shook her head in frustration. "Why don't you both just shut up, if you're not going to be helpful? We still don't have an explanation for what you're doing together. And I honestly can't think of one either."  
  
Harry and Draco shared a quick smirk, and Hermione wailed, "I swear you two are doing this on purpose!"  
  
Draco grinned and took another drink. "How about this? 'Draco Malfoy has come to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry after an invitation from tasty Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall, to be her personal paramour. Malfoy is accompanied by his admirer, Harry Potter, who first became enamoured with Malfoy when he (Potter) saw the former Death Eater shirtless in the 2003 'Dashing Dark Wizards' pin-up calendar. The two will stay at the castle and ask that their privacy be respected, though they are open to invitations for naughty photo-shoots.'"  
  
Harry was shaking with silent laughter and Draco snorted into his wine bottle, causing himself to choke. Hermione asked incredulously, "Are you _drunk_ , Malfoy?"  
  
"When is he not?" Harry quipped.  
  
"Wait--are _you_ drunk, Harry?"  
  
Harry looked suspiciously at Malfoy, who shrugged and said, "I couldn't do anything to you here. If you drank too much, it's your own fault."  
  
Harry retorted, "Well, I seem to recall _someone_ making sure my wineglass was always full."  
  
"And yet you kept drinking from it, necessitating me to keep filling it."  
  
Hermione had begun to ignore them and started scribbling on her parchment. She interrupted their half-hearted squabbling a minute later to ask, "All right, then how about this? 'Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are visiting at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to see friends and family. They ask that their privacy be respected.'"  
  
Silence stretched for a long moment and the fire crackled. Draco asked disbelievingly, "And we had to have a meeting for this?"  
  
Harry had to nod vigorously in shared sentiment and Hermione snapped, "Well, you two haven't given me anything more to work with! I don't know what you're doing here together, where you've been for the last five years or how to explain your suddenly appearing back in public!"  
  
Draco sighed dramatically. "Fine then. 'Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter have come to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry after one of Malfoy's cunning plans went awry. Malfoy and Potter have been in constant contact since they were involved in a traffic accident together earlier this year. Malfoy came to Hogwarts pursuing personal research interests and was selfishly followed by Potter, who blew his own cover and created a tabloid frenzy. Currently Malfoy is considering drowning himself in the lake to get away from the endless annoyance of Gryffindors. Meanwhile, Potter is trying to get a date with the Divination professor.'" Hermione was staring at him and he shrugged. "At least it would be true."  
  
"No, no, no, it wouldn't," Harry protested. " _You_ are trying to make me date the Divination professor. _I_ am not trying to do anything!"  
  
Hermione ignored this for the moment and focused on the details. "You said this morning something about Malfoy helping to get the final horcrux, right? Then how about, 'Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy have returned to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for a visit, after six years away. Malfoy came to Hogwarts to pursue personal interests and was accompanied by former classmate Potter. Potter and Malfoy worked together during the war and have remained on amicable terms since that time. They ask that their privacy be respected by both the press and public. At this time they are not interested in any interviews and would like to state for the record that any details not included in this official statement are to be considered no more than hearsay and fiction.'"  
  
Draco pouted. "Not entirely accurate and I liked my first version better. But I suppose it'll do. _Terribly_ dry, though."  
  
Hermione looked towards Harry questioningly. His eyes fell to the ground. "S'all right, I suppose," he mumbled, still clearly wishing that he didn't have to say anything at all.   
  
Hermione eased up a bit, though she also wanted to shake her old friend for acting like such a child. "Harry," she reminded him yet again, "you _know_ that this is for the best. We can't memory charm the entire population. They know that you're here now and so the best that we can do is try to prevent any more gossip."   
  
Harry nodded again, but less sulkily this time. His drunken humour seemed to be fading and now he just looked tired. With his face pale and serious, underneath his messy dark hair, Hermione could see the boy that she'd been best friends with for all her school years. She'd begun to worry that that boy was gone.   
  
Smiling privately, she turned back to the parchment and quickly wrote out the statement. She tapped it with her wand and, like ink soaking through paper, the Hogwarts seal appeared across the top of it in embossed, purple ink. She waved the two men over and, handing the quill to Harry first, told them each to sign their names at the bottom. Harry held the quill awkwardly and carefully scratched out his name. He handed the quill to Draco, who didn't hesitate to scrawl his signature across the page, large, elegant and full of superfluous flourishes.   
  
"Right then," Hermione said, in a matter-of-fact tone. She tapped the parchment again and it glowed briefly, the two signatures taking on a silvery sheen. "Now no one will be able to alter what it says or deny that you two have approved it." She rolled the parchment into a scroll and clutched it tightly. "I'll have it owled to the Prophet tonight. That way they shouldn't be able to run any garbage in the morning paper. Hopefully."   
  
Harry nodded, chewing on the inside of his lip again. He sighed tiredly and Hermione noticed immediately. She asked in a gentler tone, "Do you want to call it a night, Harry? It has been quite the eventful day. And we can talk more tomorrow--I'll only have my two NEWT classes so I should be around more."   
  
The truth was that Harry didn't think that he wanted to talk more--tomorrow or any time. He rather wanted to apparate right back to his own little house and his own bed and forget about this entire day. But being left alone to sleep might be the closest he could come to that. He smiled gratefully, though it looked a bit forced, and said, "Thanks, Hermione. It's been..." He broke off, realising it would be hurtful to say 'a nightmare of a day.' He sighed again. "You're right, I'm tired."   
  
Hermione picked up the remaining parchment and stood up to go. "Is Malfoy staying here as well, then?"  
  
The blond shrugged and Harry rolled his eyes. "That means 'yes,'" he interpreted for Hermione. "Or I think it does." He looked at Draco suspiciously and Draco gave him back a wicked and completely untrustworthy grin.  
  
"And I don't have to worry about the two of you trying to kill each other, sharing a set of rooms?"  
  
Harry solemnly shook his head. Silently laughing again, Draco drunkenly imitated him. Hermione paused at the door, one hand on the handle but still turned towards the two men. Looking at Harry, she saw past the image she still held of him as a seventeen-year-old and stared at the twenty-three-year-old man sitting in front of her. He wore no glasses and his brilliant green eyes had grown narrower, shadowed by his sooty black eyelashes, as if he was looking at everything suspiciously. His face was squarer than she remembered, and already shaded with stubble, making him look a bit wild. Especially together which his hair, which had grown quite long and hung past his thick eyebrows, completely covering his old scar and waving about his tanned face, long enough to curl slightly at the nape of his neck. She shook her head and said quietly, "I don't know you at all, do I? I might have walked by you on the street."  
  
Harry didn't smile this time. He continued to look back seriously into her eyes but he couldn't offer her any pretty words to console her. Instead it was Draco who piped up, still nursing his wine bottle. "Don't worry, Granger. I can assure you that he's still the same prudish Gryffindor underneath it all. You should have seen how embarrassed he was the first time he saw me naked."  
  
The serious moment was broken and Harry lurched toward Draco to beat some sense into him. Hermione watched the two of them for a moment longer, then said, "We'll figure more out tomorrow. Good night...you two."  
  
The two men desisted in their rough-housing long enough to gravely watch her go. After the door shut, Draco whispered, "Did you hear that?" He looked towards Harry. "Ooh, you've really gone and cocked things up."  
  
"Me?" Harry spluttered, "What did I do?"  
  
"Didn't you hear what she said?" Draco looked at him with wide grey eyes. He imitated Hermione's sad tones, "'Good night...you two.'"  
  
Harry continued to look at him expectantly and Draco pointed out in obvious sort of tone, "She lumped you together with me. Like you're a stranger to her, too."  
  
Looking down at the floor, Harry chewed on the inside of his lip. He wasn't sure if he felt sad or relieved to hear Draco's theory. Draco himself was apparently already bored with ex-Gryffindor inter-relationships and he started exploring the rooms, still clutching his wine bottle, now nearly empty.  
  
He opened the door at the far end of the room and found the bedroom, which featured most prominently a large (though not as large as Draco's) bed, which looked like heaven after the bizarre day it had been. He called back to Harry, "I've found my room. Have a nice night on the couch."  
  
This was enough to at least to get Harry out of his funk and up on his feet. He followed Draco to the bedroom door and peeked inside, seeing the bed and immediately protesting, "Oh, fuck no. I will hex you from here to Sunday. You can't take me, Malfoy."  
  
Draco wasn't very worried and he opened another door in the bedroom to step into the bathroom. "Ooh, or I may just live in here." This sent Harry scurrying to the bathroom next and even he managed an impressed whistle. It wasn't as extravagant as the Prefects' bathroom in the third floor corridor, but for just one professor, the five-foot square jacuzzi-style bath seemed more than enough. Draco immediately knelt next to the bathtub and turned one of the taps. It started a torrent of clear water that seemed to sparkle--and not in any usual way, but as if it actually contained little glowing particles of something--and splashed and tinkled in a way that was more musical than regular water had the right to be.  
  
As the water slowly filled the huge bath, Draco stood up and pulled his shirt over his head. He looked at it in his hands for a moment and then reminded Harry, "We're going to need some more clothing, aren't we?"  
  
Harry looked up from the sparkling water and realised belatedly that Malfoy had begun to lose his clothes. He nodded mutely. Draco said, "Remind me, and I'll have Merry bring some from the Manor in the morning. I don't want to see his ugly face tonight though. That's all I need after a day like this."  
  
"Right," Harry said distractedly. He backed out of the room and went back out to look around the bedroom again. It was nearly empty but for the large bed and an elaborately carved wardrobe. There were two small spindly tables, one on either side of the bed and each holding a small magical lamp. Harry threw himself on the bed.  
  
He listened to Draco splashing around in the bath and thought about the day. He really wanted to go home. Suddenly boring days spent cleaning his house and watching television were sounding mighty fine and the strange thrill of following Malfoy in his adventures had turned around to sting him in the arse.  
  
Harry stared unseeingly at the ceiling until Draco came back into the bedroom and said, "Oi, budge over, you wanker."  
  
Harry obligingly scooted towards one side of the bed then glanced in Draco's direction to find him standing in the doorway, towelling his hair dry, and wearing not a stitch of clothing.  
  
"Oh, no," Harry said quickly, "you'd better not be thinking that you'll be sleeping in this bed like _that_."  
  
"I don't like to sleep in clothing," Draco protested.  
  
"And I don't like to sleep with naked men in my bed!" Harry threw back immediately.  
  
Draco wanted to ask if the Gryffindor was speaking from first-hand experience but he decided sleep was worth more than the fun of needling Harry Potter. He threw back the duvet and sat on the edge of the bed, presenting Harry with an extremely white backside, then said, "Well, then, you'd better be sure to stay on your side of the bed."  
  
He made to lay down and Harry nearly pleaded, "Can't you at least put some pants on?"  
  
"But my clothes are in the bathroom," Draco whined with utmost self-centred laziness.  
  
"Pants, Malfoy!" Harry screeched, a bit hysterically. Slightly worried that he might draw a wand soon, Draco reluctantly got up and shuffled back to the bathroom, pulling his black briefs from the pile of neatly folded clothes he'd left for the house elves to clean. He carried them with him back into the bedroom, twirling the small piece of fabric from his finger, then made a point of putting them on exaggeratedly, before collapsing back onto the bed.  
  
Meanwhile Harry had made a point of ignoring him, but he had kicked off his own shoes and then peeled off his socks, on the far side of the bed. Leaving his t-shirt on, he at last took off his jeans and threw them in a pile on the floor. Stripped down to his faded t-shirt and worn, soft boxers, he crawled under the duvet himself.  
  
He said softly, " _Nox,_ " guessing correctly that it would douse the lights in the room. Lying in the dark and listening to Malfoy's slow, steady breathing, Harry realised that he hadn't for a moment questioned sharing a bed with the blond. In the best of his school days, he wouldn't have hesitated to share a bed with Ron or their Gryffindor mates, if the need arose. But he probably still would have been a bit embarrassed about it--even without any of his Gryffindor friends prancing about naked.  
  
He stared up into the darkness, counting his breaths unconsciously. He rolled over on his side, careful to leave the couple of feet of distance between himself and Malfoy. After less than a minute he rolled back onto his back. He started counting Malfoy's breaths instead.  
  
Harry's happy buzz from the wine at dinner was now completely gone. He wondered about what the papers might say tomorrow. About what the professors at Hogwarts might ask him. About what the students would do if they ever worked up the courage to approach him. About the owls that might start arriving the next day.  
  
Hadn't he left his oven on? Or forgot to lock the door when he left? Wasn't there any excuse for him to go home, even though he'd said that he would do something with his life and said that he'd help Malfoy with what had happened to him?  
  
The familiar soft voice cut through the darkness. "Can't sleep?"  
  
He rolled over and his eyes had adjusted enough to make out the rough shape of Malfoy lying on his side, facing him. "Looks unlikely," he said flatly.  
  
"Want to do something about it?"  
  
Harry couldn't see the blond's face in the dark but he heard a hint of a smirk in that voice which made him say suspiciously, "If you're going to suggest drinking ourselves into a stupor--"  
  
There was a short burst of breathy laughter that shook the mattress beneath Harry. Draco chided him, "I was only going to suggest a walk. Work out some of that excess energy."  
  
Lying on his back, Harry made a decision. Within five minutes, they had both stumbled back into their Muggle clothing and left the dark history rooms for the empty corridors of the castle. Without a word, they headed to the entrance hall and then outside, as if they both felt the need to get the hell out of the magical castle.  
  
Walking alongside the lake in the dark, they didn't say much. Draco only tried to shove Harry into the black water once. But for the most part, they strolled on in silence, listening to the waves lapping the shore and the rustling of grass around their feet. When they had made it half-way around the huge lake, Harry paused and looked across to the quidditch pitch to their right. He looked at Draco questioningly and the other man shrugged. Harry took that as tacit agreement and started off towards the pitch, Malfoy trailing behind him.  
  
They slipped past the stands where the crowds of students usually sat and onto the wide field itself. Though the season hadn't even started yet, the grass on the pitch was kept clipped and well groomed. Their footsteps were soft thuds that echoed across the dark, empty space. Finally they stood at the very middle of the pitch-black field, where so many rival captains had stood to shake hands, briefly touching for that necessary moment.  
  
Harry slowly exhaled, remembering standing here as a boy, glaring across at a scrawny blond with his flash new broomstick. After all this time, it was the matches with Malfoy that remained in his memories. Never had Harry felt more determined or passionate about the game than when he had faced Draco smirking at him from atop a broomstick.  
  
"Wanna fly?" he asked suddenly in the hushed night air.  
  
Draco replied naturally, as if they'd been in the middle of a conversation, "Love to, but I don't think I can."  
  
"Why not--" Harry started, then broke off. "Oh, you mean, because..."  
  
Draco nodded and pointed out softly, "Broomsticks won't respond to Muggles."  
  
Harry asked, "Have you never tried? Since then?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "I never wanted to know for sure."  
  
They lapsed back into silence and Harry felt a little spurt of guilt about bringing the subject up. But then Draco spoke up again, saying, "Let's try, shall we."  
  
Harry glanced at him and then began to grin. He jogged across the field and under the stands to the broom shed. A quick spell unlocked the door and he stepped inside, surrounded by the familiar smell of broom-polish. Quickly selecting two of the newest-looking brooms, he tucked them under his arm and headed back out onto the field.  
  
Another quick wave of his wand brought the field lights to sudden life and immediately it was brighter than day on the field. As Harry approached him, Draco asked mildly, "Don't you think someone will notice?"  
  
"At this time of night?" Harry scoffed. "Besides, what will they do? Kick us out of Hogwarts? Like that's any threat."  
  
Draco made a funny doubtful face and then Harry shoved a broom into his hands. Looking down at the carefully shaped and polished wood in his hands, Draco felt a buzz of adrenaline. But he felt no buzz of magic. Smiling grimly, he let the broomstick fall to the ground and then, with one hand held above it, he commanded, " _Up._ "  
  
The stick didn't even roll over or give a shudder. Neville Longbottom could have got a better reaction from it. Draco shrugged and squashed down a small prickling pain. "Guess that's it, then." He looked at Harry calmly. "Go on. I'll stay down here and watch."  
  
Harry frowned and looked down at the broomstick in his own hands. He threw one leg over it and then did something strange. He slid forward on the broom, sitting higher than anyone usually would, and said, "Get on."  
  
Draco blinked. "Are you _suggesting_ ," he said, laughing, "that I ride on a broomstick with you?"  
  
"That's what I'm telling you to do, yes."  
  
Draco goggled a bit. No one rode two to a broomstick, except perhaps small children. He looked very doubtfully at Harry hovering there, his toes barely skimming the ground, and the dark-haired man taunted him, "Come on, Malfoy. I'll finally show you how you're _supposed_ to fly."  
  
Draco stepped closer, putting one hand on the gently vibrating broom. "I'm quite sure that this is not how you're supposed to fly," he said dryly. But the broomstick didn't immediately drop to the ground when he touched it and so, taking a deep breath, he straddled the broom behind Harry, his hands on the other man's shoulders.  
  
They hovered for a tense moment, and then Harry softly kicked off against the ground with the toes of his trainers and they shot into the air. Draco quickly had to grab onto the other man more securely, or risk falling off the broomstick. Then, with his arms wrapped around Harry's waist and his fingers digging into his bony ribs, Draco rode with Harry into the night sky.  
  
They spiralled upwards, quickly picking up speed high above the pitch, hurtling toward the field of cold stars above them. Draco's feet were wrapped around the broom's tail, but the whole front of his body was pressed against Harry's warm, hard body, his knees clamped around the other man's hips. Harry was in complete control of the broom and Draco had no control over where or how they were going, simply having to trust in Harry's instincts.  
  
He'd seen Harry fly hundreds of times--at quidditch matches, at practices, when they'd first learnt together in first year. He'd always been able to tell that there was something different about the way Harry flew, but now that he was actually experiencing it, he felt like he understood something. Harry flew like something wild and free: flitting through the air, changing direction on a whim, throwing himself into dives and loops just for the feel of it. It was reckless and stupid and not at all suited for a choreographed team-sport like quidditch. But for a solitary position, like a Seeker, it made Harry brilliant.  
  
Draco had always flown with perfect control and grace. He'd been taught to fly, like everything else, by the best tutors when he'd been young. It had never been about enjoyment, but about _technique_. It was only after he'd come to Hogwarts, after he'd flown against Harry Potter, that he'd begun to realise that there was more to flying than just showing off perfect technique and being admired: there was also flying for the sake of flying.  
  
Now, as he grew accustomed to his position behind Harry, he almost unconsciously manipulated their path with the pressure of his feet against the broom's tail. He felt Harry start and he began to grin. He could still do it. He spoke directly in Harry's ear, into the whistling wind, "You wanted to show _me_ how you're supposed to fly?"  
  
His hands loosened their hold on Harry's waist and snaked forward to grasp the broomstick's handle just below Harry's own hands. With his arms locked around the other man, he took control of the broom. He felt Harry relax his grip and they drifted without aim for a moment, sinking downwards. Then Draco leaned sharply to the right, taking Harry with him, and they hurtled into a perfectly controlled dive, aiming straight down to the pitch. As the ground loomed up in front of them, growing ever closer and larger, Harry called out, "Uh, Malfoy, are you sure you can--"

He didn't even get to finish his statement before Draco forced them to go even faster, torpedoing towards the ground like a falling star. "MALFOY!" Harry shrieked, quite sure that they were about to be broken into so many pieces that even the mediwitches at St Mungo's wouldn't be able to put them back together. The ground was so close that he could see the individual blades of grass. The tip of the broom was about to plunge into the dirt. It was the end. " _MALFOY!_ "  
  
Draco pulled them up and they were suddenly rocketing across the pitch, parallel to the earth and only inches above the grass. They were travelling so fast that just the grass left a stinging pain through their jeans, where their legs skimmed over it. Draco sent the broom into a lazy roll, still so close to the ground that their hair brushed against the grass. It wasn't instinct like it was for Harry. He had complete and utter control and knowledge of what he was doing.  
  
Draco began a gentle ascent, shooting them upwards in a perfectly controlled but lazy spiral, which grew tighter the higher that they climbed. By now Harry had relaxed against Draco, trusting that the blond knew what he was doing, and he didn't scream this time when Draco suddenly let them drop into freefall. They felt weightless as the air rushed past them, blowing their hair up and grasping at their clothes. Then, without a moment's difficulty, Draco swung them back into flight, coasting around the height of the quidditch hoops in smooth figure-eights.  
  
He loosened his grip, his wrists still lying across the tops of Harry's thighs. They drifted aimlessly forward again, leaning against one another. Draco could still feel and hear Harry's heartbeat, reverberating through the thin man's back and against his own chest.  
  
He spoke confidently into Harry's ear, curls of black hair against his cheek, "And that's how you're _supposed_ to do it."  
  
They continued to drift, held aloft by Harry's magic. Harry admitted in a regretful murmur, "You may have a point."  
  
Draco grinned and pulled his arms back, suddenly clapping Harry on the back. He exclaimed, "I've thought of something fun. Catch me." And then the broom lurched as half the weight was removed from it. There was the sound of a woman screaming. Harry knew even as he lurched around that Draco had jumped. Someone was standing down on the pitch, a witch in long robes, but Harry couldn't take his eyes from Draco. The blond was tumbling through the air, his arms and legs spread wide like one of those people who jumped from aeroplanes. But they had parachutes and Draco had nothing but Harry.  
  
Harry shot down on his broom, drawing alongside Draco in seconds as they both fell towards the ground once again. Draco's grey eyes caught his and Harry saw that there was no fear in that sharp, white face. Rather the man was _grinning_ wildly. He reached out a hand, his long graceful fingers splayed wide and struggling against the air pressure. Harry caught that hand and pulled Draco towards him, as they passed the first level of stands on their way to the ground. Draco wrapped himself around Harry again, his legs locking around the broom tail, and then Harry pulled them up out of the dive, still at least thirty feet above the ground.  
  
"You really are suicidal, aren't you?!" he yelled at the man once again seated safely behind him.  
  
He felt Draco shrug against his back. "I knew you could catch me."  
  
Harry shook his head and exclaimed, "You're not a damned snitch!"  
  
A new voice called out to them tremulously, "Are you two all right?"  
  
They looked to the pitch and Harry remembered hearing a woman scream when Draco jumped. Standing on the grass and staring up at them with wide, shocked eyes was the Divination professor, Marianthi Fotiadis. Harry quickly flew down to her and they landed on the ground a bit awkwardly, not used to landing with two pairs of legs. Draco slid off the broom and looked between the witch and Harry in amusement. Harry stood up, standing the broom up next to him on its point.  
  
"I was in the astronomy tower," Marianthi explained weakly, "recording the stars, when I saw the pitch light up. I had to come make sure it wasn't students out of bed at night."  
  
She looked at the two men with a slightly dazed expression and asked again, "Are you sure you're all right? The way I saw you two flying...and then when you fell..."  
  
Draco slyly snatched the broom from Harry's hand. "Potter, why don't you escort Ms Fotiadis back to the castle. She's clearly a bit shaken up." He smiled at the dark-eyed witch compassionately and Harry knew it was utterly contrived. Draco picked up the other, abandoned broom from the grass and said, "I'll just put these away and be right behind you two."  
  
Marianthi nodded and looked expectantly at Harry. He shot a quick but telling look of annoyance at Draco. He'd much rather stay with the blond and fly as hard and fast as they could away from the castle. But he stepped up alongside the witch obligingly. They started in the direction of the school as Harry explained that he and Malfoy had simply been trying to blow off some steam, then struggled to explain what the Muggle idiom meant to the Greek witch.  
  
Draco snickered to himself as he watched them go, then headed to the broom closet alone. 


	16. In Which There Is Teaching

**Chapter Sixteen**  
_In Which There Is Teaching_  
  
DRACO HAD PUT THE TWO brooms away and then realised that he couldn't relock the broom shed without magic. Assuming that no one would notice--or if they did, they wouldn't know to blame him--he headed back to the castle anyway, his way faintly lit by the moon overhead. Once inside and without even that faint light, he stumbled through the halls blindly, no wand to light his way. After running into several walls and feeling his way through the corridors, he eventually found the staff wing again, mostly through chance. He tried three different doors before he found the right one, which opened into the history professor's rooms.  
  
The fire was still smouldering, providing at least a dim light in one corner of the shadowy sitting room, but there was no sign that Harry had come back yet. Draco tripped over to the bedroom, barking his shin against at least the sofa and other unknown objects. He called out unsurely, "Potter?"  
  
There was no response. Unable to light the lamps without magic, Draco stripped in the dark, pulling off the clothes that now smelt like grass and night air. He folded them carefully and blindly placed them in a neat pile on the floor next to the bed. Then he sat down on the bed. He stared into the unfamiliar dark for a few long moments, and then he picked up his jeans again and slipped them back on, padding out to the living room where there was the dying light of the fire.  
  
He spied his wine bottle on the floor and picked it up, but his shoulders sagged when he felt how light it was. Tipping it over his mouth confirmed that it was empty. He dropped to sit on the floor, leaning toward the glowing coals with one arm looped loosely under his knees. He absent-mindedly rolled the empty wine bottle on the floor with his free hand. That was how Harry found him when he finally got back: sitting in a dark room, shirtless, outlined in reddish gold by the light from the glowing coals.  
  
Harry glanced at him oddly and then started toward the bedroom, complaining, "I can't believe you sent me off with that woman alone. I had to walk her all the way to her rooms and then she wouldn't let me go without a 'soothing cup of tea' to thank me. Ugh." He made a disgusted noise and muttered, " _Lumos_." The two small lamps in the bedroom flared to life. Harry stripped off his clothes again, throwing them to the floor. He fell onto the bed for the second time that night, but ready to sleep for the first time. He called out to the other room, "Are you staying up?"  
  
Draco abandoned his empty bottle and dragged himself up again. He shuffled into the bedroom and undid the button on his jeans, letting them fall down to his ankles and then kicking them off his feet. Then he looked at them crumpled on the floor and frowned. He bent over and snatched them up again, folding them properly this time and dropping them on top of his shirt on the floor. He crawled back into the bed and Harry doused the lights.  
  
Harry sighed tiredly. Draco asked, "Can you sleep now?"  
  
There was a hint of a smile in Harry's voice when he replied, "I think so." He rolled on his side, turning towards Draco even if he couldn't see any more of him than the faintest of outlines. "I still can't believe you jumped, you crazy bastard."  
  
Draco managed a soft snigger this time. "Sorry I can't let you do the same. If you jumped, you really would hit the ground and so would I. I still can't fly a broom on my own."  
  
Harry's exhaled heavily. "I never imagined being able to fly like that."  
  
"I know you never imagined you'd be able to fly like me," Draco teased him, smirking in the dark. "Not many dare aspire to such heights."  
  
Harry laughed and lashed out under the duvet, kicking at Draco's legs. This led of course to a brief but furious kicking match, which left the sheets torn half off the bed. They called a truce and pulled the duvet back up over themselves.  
  
Harry lay still, thinking that he should say something about how the flying had made the whole day seem bearable and even worth it. That he should thank Malfoy in some way. But then he remembered that Malfoy had nearly landed the two of them face first and dead into the ground twice that night. Thanks seemed less necessary then. Instead he let the deep, dark calm inside of him spread through his limbs and lure him into sleep.  
  
  
  
  
Harry woke the next morning to the sound of someone snickering above him. He pried one eye open to look up at Draco, who was leaning over him and holding something in his hand. Something that looked suspiciously like a Scuddimore's Smudge-Proof Permanent Pen. Harry sat bolt upright and looked down at himself. His chest and arms were covered with graffiti. Kicking the duvet away, he scrambled out of the bed and ran for the bathroom. He slammed into the small room and flew to the mirror above the sink. His face was thankfully free of writing, but all over his front and creeping up his neck were doodles and messages.  
  
He struggled to read their backwards reflection in the mirror, muttering, "Gryffindork for life... I secretly am in love with Moaning Myrtle... I'm thick as the big print version of the Complete Works of Charles Dickens... I beat Voldemort and _all I got was this lousy tattoo_?! _MALFOY!_ " He ran back into the bedroom and jumped on Malfoy, pummelling the other man like he hadn't in years. Malfoy was laughing too hard to do anything more than hold his arms over himself to ineffectively protect his body from Harry's fists.  
  
Harry gave up soon enough. He wasn't really out to hurt the other man, he just felt the need to express himself--upon Malfoy's body. That is, until Malfoy said helpfully, "You might want to check under your fringe." Harry jumped back up, sprinting to the bathroom again, and Draco rolled about on the floor, crying with mirth.  
  
In front of the mirror, Harry lifted the heavy hair that covered his scar, which he now found grossly exaggerated with thick black ink, surrounded by more little lightning bolts, and punctuated with the words, "I'm Harry fucking Potter!"  
  
Steaming silently, he took the opportunity to look again over himself. There were drawings of little stick figures doing naughty things, which ran around his navel and across his chest in one very sick parade. There were messages and quotes scattered in different sizes and styles of writing. A large, ornately drawn heart on his shoulder was crossed with a banner that read, "Buckbeak" and tiny, careful writing crept around his neck like a sinuous snake. He leaned in towards the mirror to try to read it. _Harry Potter is a useless sot who can't hold his liquor or pull off a real Wronski Feint or charm his way out of a box. He has no friends but a Death Eater who he previously tried to kill on several occasions. And he likes it that way, the great gay punter._  
  
Harry turned back to Draco with a dangerous look. Draco was lying on his back on the floor and stared at the upside-down Harry with a grin. "Look," he pointed toward the wardrobe, "I had Merry bring clothing." Harry stepped over the blond to check the wardrobe and Draco added pointedly, "No turtlenecks, though, I'm afraid."  
  
Harry stopped walking toward the wardrobe and suddenly dropped down to sit _hard_ on Malfoy's chest. The blond gasped for breath and beat futile fists against him. Harry straddled the man's chest, pinning Malfoy's ropy arms under his knees. He reached out and grabbed the permanent pen from where it had rolled away under the bed clothes in their previous scuffle and then he uncapped it and held it threateningly over Draco, a wild look in his eyes. Draco looked genuinely alarmed this time--since magical items with names including the word 'permanent' really meant what they said--and he threw his legs up, kneeing Harry hard in the back and sending him crashing face forward into Draco. Their heads collided with a painful, loud _clunk_ and they both rolled away groaning and cursing, clutching at their bruised foreheads.  
  
"Oh, you _fucker_ , Malfoy!"  
  
Draco groaned, "You're the one who attacked me!"  
  
"Because," Harry ground out in a pained tone, "you _wrote all over my body!_ "  
  
Of course at that moment there came a knock from the main door in the living room and Hermione popped her head in, calling out, "Harry? Malfoy? Are you two coming to breakfast?"  
  
She heard the cursing coming from the bedroom and stepped cautiously up to the open doorway, to find the two men wearing nothing but underpants and clutching their heads, while sprawled on the floor. And Harry appeared to be covered in tattoos. "What the--" She looked at them disbelievingly. "I thought you said I could leave the two of you alone!"  
  
"That was until Malfoy decided to wake me with an art show. On _my_ skin. In Scuddimore's Smudge-Proof Permanent Pen." Harry looked balefully at the blond, who was grinning painfully while still massaging his head.  
  
Hermione felt an odd bubbling feeling in her chest and then realised what it was: laughter. A few shocked giggles slipped past her lips, then she was bent over laughing at the two of them. Maybe things hadn't changed as much as she'd feared.  
  
"Well," she said briskly, no sympathy in her voice, "are you going to put some clothes on and come down to breakfast or are you just planning to stay in and hide your shame?"  
  
Harry got to his knees and his whole face screwed up from the pain in his head. When his hand came up to rub his forehead ruefully, Hermione saw that there was more writing there. She stepped towards him and brushed aside his heavy fringe to see the mocking message, "I'm Harry fucking Potter!" She had to hide her laughter and turned away. Heading back into the living room, she said in a strangled voice, "Hurry and get dressed. We should get to breakfast. I'm interested to see the papers."  
  
Harry pulled a face, but he finally pulled himself to his feet and staggered over to the wardrobe. He pulled its heavy doors open to find it now packed with what were apparently Malfoy's clothes. His own clothes had vanished from the floor, probably thanks to house elves. He picked out a pair of dark jeans and the longest-sleeved and highest-necked shirt he could find, which happened to be white and--he realised when he pulled it out--have emblazoned on the back, _When I'm good, I'm really good. When I'm bad, I'm even better._ He said conversationally, "I hate that I'm the same size as you."  
  
"You'd rather have nothing to wear?" Draco asked back.  
  
He glared at Draco again, but pulled the shirt on. It covered all the writing on his arms, except for one small note he had discovered on his left palm: _Alcohol may not solve any problems, but then again, neither does milk._ The writing on his neck peeked out from the shirt's round collar and ran around his neck, but no one else should get close enough to him to read it. He stepped into the jeans and, doing them up as he went, walked back out into the sitting room. There he picked up his trainers and noticed that they were covered with mud and grass from the previous night. He called to Malfoy, "Did your miserable house elf bring any shoes as well?"  
  
Hermione frowned at the mention of house elves, but then had to duck when first one, then another shoe came hurtling out of the bedroom, quick followed by a pair of socks, rolled into a ball. Harry collected the shoes and grimaced slightly when he got a look at them. They were retro-looking Converse All-Stars. He was going to look like such a punk in front of all the students and staff, who would all be wearing uniforms and robes.  
  
Or so he thought until Draco stepped out of the bedroom. Harry blinked at him. He was rather accustomed to the blond wearing rather plain and even faded Muggle clothes. Often it was his own faded Muggle clothes. Today Draco was wearing stone-washed, well-fitted and expensive-looking jeans, a thick belt looped around his narrow waist, and a tight black t-shirt that did nothing to hide either his slim physique or the faded Dark Mark on his forearm. His hair, still impossibly blond, hung into his dark grey eyes and the man looked positively dangerous--not in a wild way, like Sirius had, or even a nasty way, like Snape had done. He looked like a beautiful, dangerous snake that would lure you in and then swallow you whole. Harry realised that no one would be looking at him once they saw Draco.  
  
The blond was tucking a wallet, which hung from a long silver chain that was now slung around his right leg, into a back pocket--even though there was no logical reason that he could need a wallet here at Hogwarts, particularly one on a chain. Harry wondered if Malfoy wasn't purposefully dressing even more like a Muggle than usual. Hermione was clearly struggling not to say anything about this get-up of Malfoy's and she simply walked to the door and said, without turning around, "Shall we go?"  
  
Draco strode across the room and Harry was amused when he heard the blond _jangle_ , thanks to the chain hanging from his jeans. He looked sideways at Harry as he passed. "Did you even brush your hair?" he asked disdainfully.  
  
Harry shrugged as he fell into step with the other man. "It's not like it'd make much difference anyway."  
  
They followed Hermione through the corridors and Draco said, "I'm surprised you didn't even try to scrub the pen off."  
  
Harry pulled a grim face. "I've seen Fred and George Weasley use the same prank on their brother Percy. There's absolutely nothing that gets the stuff off, but the specific formula sold by Scuddimore's. _Nothing_."  
  
Draco grinned widely. "I know! Isn't it _great_?"  
  
Harry eyed him with a narrow green glare. "Watch yourself, Malfoy. Payback is a bitch."  
  
"Oh, I'm looking forward to it, Potter," the blond purred in a similarly loaded tone.  
  
They arrived at the side door to the Great Hall again. Professor Flitwick had just gone in ahead of them, with a quick startled glance at the two visitors' strange dress. Draco rolled his eyes and shoved past Hermione and Harry to stride confidently into the Great Hall. Harry was reminded of the way he had always strode confidently into rooms in their school days, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. He caught Hermione's eye and gave her a small rueful smile.  
  
Hermione smiled back instinctively and then they entered the Great Hall themselves. The house tables were nearly half-full and the Head Table had only two empty seats left--those for Hermione and Harry themselves. Draco was already seated next to Professor Flitwick, who looked a bit spooked. Harry hurried over to Draco and dropped quickly into the empty seat next to him, hoping no one had time to read the words on the back of his borrowed shirt. Hermione took the last empty seat, which was several spaces down, between McGonagall and Sprout. An owl which had been perched among the arches in the enchanted ceiling swooped down to drop a newspaper in front of her. Ignoring the food in front of her, Hermione first unrolled the paper to read the front page, then glanced through the rest of it quickly. McGonagall leaned in to speak to her and she pulled an Ever-Inked Quill--a fancy Wizard biro--from her bag beside her chair, scrawling something across the top of the first page. She passed the paper to Sprout, clearly with instructions to pass it along to Harry and Draco, because it travelled quickly to their end of the table.  
  
Harry looked at the newspaper, as Draco unconcernedly bit into a cheese danish. There was a fuzzy photo of the two of them blown up on the front page, no doubt taken by some clever person as they had been walking through Hogsmeade with Hermione the previous morning. Draco mumbled, his mouth mostly full of flaky pastry, "Crap shot. You couldn't even tell it was us if you didn't know already."  
  
Harry had to agree and he looked at the note that Hermione had written along the top edge of the paper. It read: _Looks like they've followed the statement as well as we could expect. McGonagall is also intercepting all the mail that comes for the two of you. It's being kept by Filch and you can collect it any time you dare._ Harry and Draco shared an equally unenthusiastic look as they thought of going to visit caretaker. Neither of them had been popular with him, unless you counted the fact that--after the Weasley Twins--there were perhaps no two people he wished better to string up in the manacles that hung from his ceiling.  
  
"Filch can have it all," Draco said quickly. Harry nodded at once. Then Draco said commandingly, "Read it aloud then, if you're going to read it."  
  
Harry glanced at the man next to him, then turned back to the paper. "Well, they've got our statement right at the top, complete with seal and signatures and all. Then there are sort of bibliographic articles of each of us--in case anyone needs a refresher on their gossip." Harry rolled his eyes as he spoke. He read out Draco's little life story first, actually a bit interested by what the Prophet had chosen to say. They gave an account of his illustrious family, of course, and of what they knew of his part in the 1997 Hogwarts invasion that led to the death of Albus Dumbledore. The author had described what was known about Draco's time as a Death Eater--which was not much--and reprinted the government's original statement regarding his release, which included the cryptic phrase that "due to certain actions during the war and the current mitigating circumstances" the youngest Malfoy was not to be sent to Azkaban like the rest of the Death Eaters. The _Prophet_ suggested that his apparent collaboration with Harry Potter, hinted at in their official statement, might have at last solved this mystery of the last of the Malfoys.  
  
Draco scoffed when he heard this last phrase and asked disinterestedly, "And what, pray tell, do they say about your illustrious self?"  
  
Embarrassed now, Harry skimmed over the column about himself, reporting for Draco, "Oh, the usual. Only son of James and Lily Potter...only known survivor of the Killing Curse...successful career at Hogwarts--"  
  
"Ha!" Draco interrupted with a sarcastic laugh. "Did they mistake your school records by any chance?"  
  
Harry couldn't really argue--his marks had never been anything much to brag about. He continued anyway, "Known to have assisted the Order of the Phoenix early in the war...disappeared after Dumbledore's death...occasional skirmishes with the Dark Lord...considered responsible for the Dark Lord's downfall...never reappeared in society after Dumbledore's death..." He trailed off and skimmed over the rest of the front page, then flipped through the rest of the newspaper. "Not much very new. Little blurbs about my taking part in the Triwizard Tournament--probably because those are the only photos they had of me, _ugh--_ and about your 'actions on behalf of the Ministry' when you were part of Umbridge's nasty little Inquisitorial Squad. God, I'd forgotten about that."  
  
Draco blinked. "So had I." He laughed. "Those were the days."  
  
Harry glared at him disapprovingly and put the paper aside, tucking into his own breakfast. Glancing about from the corner of his eye, he saw that none of the teachers at the Head Table were reading the newspapers, though he couldn't be sure if it was some sort of purposeful statement or if they had simply already done so. The students, on the other hand, were almost all rotating through eating their breakfasts, whispering to their neighbours, and staring at the Head Table. Apparently they had read the bit about Draco being the only free living Death Eater.  
  
Draco, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind all the horrified stares that were being aimed at him. He made a show of elegantly, and even seductively, polishing off a breakfast of mostly sweets and pastries. He calmly looked back at the students, a faintly amused smirk hovering around his sugar-flaked lips. Harry twitched as he looked at those lips, but turned away and looked down at his own plate instead, letting his hair cover his eyes, as well as his scar and Draco's artwork.  
  
Draco turned casually to talk to Flitwick, trying to describe to the Charms professor the book-searching spell he'd had Harry use the day before. The tiny man looked as suspicious as a Gringotts goblin but couldn't help being a bit charmed by Draco asking him for advice on his specialty. He haltingly discussed ways to improve the spell with the blond, who once again seemed perfectly able to ignore his fellows' discomfort and chat easily and disarmingly. It was part of that deadly snake charm, Harry thought as he picked up his napkin from his lap and tossed it on the table, done with the public spectacle.  
  
He stood up and, with a brief touch on Draco's shoulder as he passed, headed down the Head Table. He paused at Hermione's chair, nodding to McGonagall respectfully. Bending over to lean closer, he said softly to Hermione, "I'm going to head back up to the library now. If you have free time, I'd be happy to have your help, but I understand if you're busy." He smiled slightly. "You _are_ a professor, after all."  
  
Hermione turned slightly and examined his face from the close distance between them. Draco had left his seat as well and now arrived to lean over them both with an elbow on Harry's bent back, right over the phrase ' _When I'm good_.' Malfoy's appearance made her pause, but Hermione still hazarded a smile in Harry's direction. "I'll do my best to make time, Harry. I'd be glad to do it for you."  
  
Harry managed a brief rictus of a smile in return, before rushing off again, Draco only a half step behind him.  
  
"Mr Potter. Mr Malfoy."  
  
The familiar commanding voice, coloured with a polished Scottish accent, stopped Harry in his tracks. Draco skidded to a stop as well, stopping himself from knocking over the other man only by quickly throwing up his hands to brace himself against Harry. They both turned back to look at the Headmistress. McGonagall told them in her usual unbending way, "Why don't the two of you come to my office this evening so that we can catch up on things." It obviously wasn't an invitation they could refuse.  
  
While Harry stood there stupidly, Draco said agreeably, "Of course, Headmistress. Shall we bring the biscuits or will you be providing?"  
  
Even McGonagall paused for a moment in the face of Malfoy's irreverent manner. Most students and even staff wouldn't dare be so familiar or fatuous to her. There was a glint of flinty humour in her eyes as she replied, "I will provide for the evening."  
  
"Oh, but it would be so poor of us to show up empty-handed," Draco said regretfully, before suggesting, "Pudding, then? Or a lovely trifle? Spotted Dick? Athole Brose? Deep-fried Mars bars?"  
  
The Headmistress cut him off before he could continue. She said dryly, "I'm sure we can make do without, Mr Malfoy, though I thank you for your generous offers. Please just be sure to bring yourself and Mr Potter."  
  
Draco nodded and then turned back away, dragging the dumbfounded Harry with him as he headed out the side door and into the empty halls. Harry muttered in a shocked voice, " _Fuck._ "  
  
Shrugging, Draco said, "I'm surprised she didn't try to corner us before now, really. We are two rather troublesome guests to have at her school."  
  
Harry looked suspiciously at the man next to him. "I'm not sure if I'm more frightened of her inviting us to her office or of your reaction." He repeated for at least the dozenth time in as many days, "You really are insane, aren't you?"  
  
They arrived back at the library just as Madame Pince was opening the doors. She looked sourly at the two of them, but let them in after herself. Avoiding her hawk-like glare, they hurried back to the Restricted Section and the privacy of the stacks. Draco had Harry try a couple of new permutations of the book-searching spell and then they carried their loot back to the same table they'd worked at the day before.  
  
With even less energy than they had when they'd first started scouring the Restricted Section, they flipped their books open. The problem was that stealing someone's magic was such an unnatural and unthinkable thing to do that there was almost nothing written about it. Only in a few Dark texts and serious books of strategies against Dark wizards were there even mentions of such a possibility, and even then it was only hypothetical. It didn't seem that any witch or wizard, Dark or Light, had ever managed to actually strip another of their power before. Not that it would be the first time that Voldemort had been the only wizard to ever achieve some horrid feat.  
  
A lot of the books they searched were, as Hermione had said, written about or for squibs. Most of these were new to Draco, since his family had of course never seen squib study as something worthy enough to include in their library. They ranged from the mundane everyday sort, such as _So your bouncing baby is a squib!: Twenty necessary charms to make their life Barrier-Free_ , to the seriously academic, like _The properties of magic and its non-manifestation in squibs_. It was fascinating and depressing to read how some squibs had attempted to get through a 'normal' magical life, with the help of the charms and spells of their family and friends. Reading about it made Draco feel disabled in a way that he hadn't for years and he flipped through the pages quickly, knowing that there wouldn't be much help for him there. If someone had found a way to 'cure' squibs, these books wouldn't exist in the first place.  
  
He realised that Harry was watching him curiously and he remembered himself. His pointless frustration melted away as he reminded himself that _his_ life had _worked_ before he'd come back to Hogwarts. He summoned an easy grin and said lightly, "I just can't believe how stupid some of these books are. Charms to make squibs' dishes self-washing? As if they can't just do it the regular way."  
  
"You mean the Muggle way?" Harry asked  
  
Draco retorted, "Well, the silly Muggles managed to survive this long without magic, obviously they know what they're doing." He shook his head. "As if any idiot couldn't figure out how to wash a dish for himself."  
  
Harry asked dryly, "Have you ever washed a dish, Malfoy?"  
  
"No," Draco said without shame, "but if I had to, I wouldn't ask someone to _spell_ it done for me. I'd just get some water and soap and do it. No wonder squibs have such a bad reputation for being useless drains on society."  
  
"Where's the difference between them and the rest of Wizardingkind?" Harry asked seriously, voicing something he'd long thought. "Why should wizards use charms to cook food or shave or do any of it, when there are perfectly good alternatives?" That was why he hardly used any magic in his daily life--simply because it was easier for him to do things the Muggle way, the way he'd grown up doing them.  
  
Draco grimaced and agreed, "There are a lot of really wank spells around, aren't there?" He laughed and said, "Do you remember in second year, when some idiot Hufflepuff started a trend with that spell to pick your own nose? And then we started doing it to you lot during dinners?" He snickered, remembering the shocked looks on the Gryffindors' faces when their noses suddenly cleaned themselves, dropping any debris straight down from their face and usually into their dinner. "Utterly pointless spell, of course, though it did prove entertaining."  
  
Harry did remember and he reminded Draco, "And then of course we retaliated by modifying a shoelace-tying spell so that all of your shoes were tied together and the whole lot of you Slytherin cunts fell on your faces when you tried to get up at the end of the meal."  
  
Draco laughed wickedly. "Those really were the days. And these kids think they're hard for running out a green professor? They'll never reach our heights."  
  
Harry had to agree, as they easily remembered the good days at Hogwarts. "Of course," he allowed graciously, "they don't seem to have a rallying force like the Weasley Twins. Or our great Slytherin/Gryffindor rivalry."  
  
Kicking Harry in the shins under the table, Draco agreed, "Yes, the old days when Slytherins and Gryffindors hated each other good and proper, instead of getting trashed together and taking trips through the countryside." He almost continued, but broke off when he saw a boy skulking about the entrance to Restricted Section. Apparently they weren't the only ones doing a little early morning investigation.  
  
Draco jerked his head to the side, directing Harry's attention to the half-grown boy. Even from here they could see the Slytherin patch on his robes and Harry rolled his eyes and whispered, "How predictable, a Slytherin sneaking into the Restricted Section." Not that he and his friends hadn't done it, too.  
  
The boy, who looked around around thirteen or fourteen, slipped into the Restricted Section with feigned nonchalance. He walked stiffly into the first row of stacks before him and Draco got up from his chair silently, putting a finger to his mouth when Harry looked at him questioningly. One hand on the chain at his waist, to stop it from making any noise, he glided over to the row where the young student had disappeared. Coming around the corner of the shelves, he loomed over the boy, who was squinting at the old, faded titles on the books, and asked suddenly, "Can I help you find something?"  
  
The boy jumped half a foot in the air and scrambled away from the book he'd had his hand on. Draco frowned at the mousy student as he gibbered and thought to himself, _So much for the famed Slytherin cunning._  
  
"I-I-I--No, but I-I was just--I mean, I have permission--or, I mean--um, I was just looking--b-but--"

The boy babbled painfully and Draco shut him up simply by holding his hand up in the universal gesture for "Stop, you idiot."  
  
He looked at the boy doubtfully, his eyes falling to the Slytherin crest on his spindly chest and then rising back to the wide-eyed face. He looked back towards Harry with a frown but Harry mouthed forcefully, "Your problem, not mine!"  
  
This wasn't turning out as amusing as he'd expected, as the boy trembled in front of him. Though it was a bit funny to see small children quake with the fear that he might _avada kedavra_ them on the spot, never knowing that he couldn't even if he wanted to. He squinted at the boy. "All right then, no big deal. Everyone and their brother has snuck into the Restricted Section. Though not many have been caught by a Death Eater." He grinned predatorily and the boy paled predictably.  
  
The student managed to stutter out, "I-I was just going to do some research. For class."  
  
"Really? What class?"  
  
The boy's mouth flapped uselessly, making him look more like a fish now than a mouse. "H-h-history."  
  
"I thought you lot didn't have history class," Draco pointed out.  
  
The boy squeaked. "Th-that's why!" he explained quickly. "I've got OWLs at the end of the year and we don't even have a syllabus!"  
  
Draco looked down at the boy, who was apparently a fifth year, though he hardly looked it. He wrinkled his nose--the kid reminded him of an unfortunately male, young Granger. "What are you studying?"  
  
"G-Grindelwald," the boy barely whispered the name of the old Dark Lord, his eyes darting nervously to the Dark Mark on Draco's arm and then back to the man's face, wider than ever.  
  
Draco sighed in annoyance. He decided that it wasn't actually that much fun to have children scared spitless just by looking at you. Not without earning it, anyhow. Stepping around the trembling Slytherin, he looked at the shelves, pulling off a few of the best books on Grindelwald's reign. He handed these to the boy, who automatically took them with his trembling hands, then warned him, "An alarm will go off if you try to take them out of the library and then you'll have all hell to pay."  
  
He turned away and walked back to the table where Harry was waiting with a mocking smile plastered smarmily on his face. "Oh, that was so sweet, Malfoy," he said in a cloying voice. "Playing nice with the ickle students, are we?"  
  
His teasing got him a swift, hard kick in the shin and he bit down on a muffled curseword, grabbing at his leg in pain. The Slytherin student was still staring in their direction with all the horror worth that dream where you're standing in front of the entire school naked. Malfoy waved a dismissive hand at him and the boy scrambled away, back into the safety of the main library, where there were people and, more importantly, witnesses--in case he were to be killed by a rogue Death Eater.  
  
For the sake of his rapidly decreasing unbruised flesh, Harry didn't say anything more about Draco's run-in with the student. They continued going through the books, with fewer interruptions from Harry, as he grew accustomed to what was unimportant and had to ask fewer questions. They worked through lunch without noticing and it wasn't until Hermione showed up at half one and discreetly pulled several napkin-wrapped meat pies from her bag that they noticed their own hunger.  
  
She looked around guiltily, as the two men snatched at the food, and hissed quietly, "Why didn't you two come down to lunch?" She dropped into the chair next to Harry and wailed softly, "I shouldn't even be bringing food into the library! I'm a professor, for goodness' sake; a role model!"  
  
Draco rolled his eyes at her paroxysms of shame and shoved another meat pie in his mouth, noting the crumbs that dropped onto the parchment pages in front of him. Hermione sighed and asked, "Have you two found anything?"  
  
Draco consulted his notes, written out with a biro in a regular, Muggle moleskin notebook he'd had in his bag. "We've had nine very hypothetical mentions of taking away another wizard's magic: two as a sort of temporary paralysis that might be used in a duel, four as ways to combat future Dark Lords, and three as permanent punishment for criminals. None with any empirical evidence or even sound theory to back them up, though." He tapped his pen against the paper, as he moved down his list. "The squib research mostly consists of ways of making squibs 'comfortable,' and occasional theoretical work on why they lack magic, but little to even suggest a direction for providing them with their own magic. On the front of power-mad wizards trying to increase their powers, there's a whole list of things that _haven't_ worked, including ridiculous potions, ceremonies, _widely_ varied usage of magical and nonmagical creatures--who knows what they thought a sheep could do for them or why they'd even think of trying to stick their--"  
  
Harry interrupted him by clearing his throat emphatically. Draco winked at him and then continued, "At any rate, we can cross about a hundred idiotic failed ideas off the list, but that only leaves, oh, everything else in the known world. Of course, these were all attempts to make those who already had power even _more_ powerful, so likely they wouldn't apply to this particular situation anyway." He turned the page in his notebook and then looked up at Hermione to say, "I found one very veiled and couched and incredibly old reference to attempts at making Muggles able to use magic, back before there was a split between the magical and Muggle worlds. But if there is anything to be read on the subject, I would guess that it would be in that 'vault' of yours."  
  
Hermione hummed consideringly. "That's the first I've even heard of it."  
  
"It was for me, as well," Draco said. "It would have been long before even the Founders' time, though, and not many records exist that are that old. And it seems unlikely that they succeeded, or why would there still be Muggles?"  
  
Her hand hovering at her lips, Hermione was looking away with an abstracted and fascinated expression. "I wonder if they didn't do experiments of some sort though. I mean, no one knows why exactly there are Muggleborns. What if, hundreds or thousands of years ago, wizards experimented on Muggles...making magic a sort of recessive trait..."  
  
"But if magic were a recessive trait," Draco protested, "that is carried and expressed in pureblood families, how would you explain squibs? Both of their parents must be carriers and so there is no way, according to Mendelian genetics, that squibs would be born. They would have to be complete sports--genetic mutations."  
  
Hermione stared at him speechlessly after this completely scientific statement and Harry dropped into the conversation, explaining, "He watches a lot of BBC."  
  
Draco continued unbothered, "But squibs appear at least every couple of generations, even in families as pure as the Malfoys. That seems far too high a rate for mutation. Although I suppose that with a reduced gene pool..." He trailed off, lost in thought.  
  
Harry had little input, so he simply asked, "So does any of this genetic speculation help with Malfoy's problem?"  
  
Hermione shook herself from her reverie. "No," she said distractedly, "even if magic is a gene, there shouldn't be a way for someone else to shut off a gene or 'take it away' with a curse. Whatever happened to Malfoy's magic must also be magical, not biological." She frowned. "I think."  
  
Draco fingers danced over his notebooks, tapping out an impatient pattern. "That's where we're at then. Still few or no practical leads and we're nearly two-thirds the way through the Restricted Section. I almost wonder if we shouldn't just move on to this 'vault' immediately. I don't really think we'll find anything here."  
  
Hermione thought she agreed, but she said rallyingly, "But you may find more references like that last one, which will give us ideas of what to look for in the vault." She tried to smile encouragingly at the two men. "Besides, it's not like we have any sort of time limit, right?"  
  
"No one turning back to pumpkins tonight," Draco muttered, slightly bungling his fairy-tale reference.  
  
Hermione's eye twitched ever so slightly and Harry assured her that, "Yes, he usually is this odd."  
  
After a quick unsure glance in Draco's direction, Hermione focussed on the man next to her, saying cautiously, "Harry, I wanted to talk to you before you met with McGonagall this evening."  
  
Harry knit his fingers together and stared as his palms, seeing Draco's message again. He gave a quick snort of laughter. He'd almost forgot that he was still covered with writing. He ought to ask Hermione to get him the removal formula from the joke shop down in Hogsmeade.  
  
Draco pushed his chair back and stood up, causing the other two to look up at him. "I'm just going to kip off to the kitchens," he lied easily. "I'm still a bit hungry." It was clear that Hermione wanted to speak to Harry without him around and Draco was getting quite used to it. People always wanted to speak with Potter.  
  
He walked out of the Restricted Section, noting that Granger didn't even suggest for a moment that he should stay for the conversation. Strolling aimlessly through the library--not really wanting to go down to the kitchens since he would surely run into Dobby, whose pathetic attitude had always bothered him so much more than Merry's downright nastiness--he came across the Slytherin boy who he had caught earlier sneaking around the Restricted Section.  
  
He dropped into a hard wooden chair across from the boy, causing him to look up and then give a terrible start. "Still here?" he asked mildly. "Don't you have any classes?"  
  
The boy glanced at his magical wristwatch nervously and then relaxed slightly in relief, answering automatically, "Not for another hour."  
  
"You've been here this whole time?" Draco asked with bland curiosity, tinged with annoyance. The kid really was like Granger, spending an entire free morning in the library.  
  
Nodding, the boy's eyes shot nervously from the books in front of him up to Draco's blank face and then around the room. Clearly he shouldn't ignore the man in front of him but he had no idea what to say to the strange visitor. He mumbled, "Thanks for getting the books for me."  
  
Draco continued to watch the boy closely, wondering how he could possibly survive in Slytherin, unless things had changed that much since he'd been in school. He asked perfunctorily, "Are they what you needed?"  
  
"Yes," the boy replied, his voice less wobbly, "though I think reading them might just give me more questions than answers."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
The boy shrugged. "Like why did no one try to stop Grindelwald before he was so ridiculously powerful? Didn't they notice him forming alliances with all the Dark creatures, like the werewolves and the vampires? Didn't they notice how the people who opposed him all tended to die or 'disappear?'"  
  
"People don't like to notice Dark Lords, until they can't help it any longer," Draco explained in an old voice. "Those who did try to do something or speak up against him, as you said, all ended up dying or disappearing. You might think that when people saw that happening, they would get up in arms about it. But in the end, most people are simply weak--easily scared and selfishly wanting to live." He glanced at the open pages of the book in front of the boy, where there was an illustration of Grindelwald at the height of his power. "Many people will keep trying to bury their heads in the sand, ignoring what is happening around them until it is too late. It's only human nature--after all, it would be hard and painful and almost certain death if you were to fight. Why not hope that someone else will do it for you? Why not hope that you won't have to do anything at all?  
  
"You may be too young to remember the former Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, but you should research his career if you want to see a real example of how tremendously far some people will go to try to ignore or deny what is happening around them." The boy quickly scratched the name down on a piece of scratch parchment and Draco continued, "But it's also a fault of our society. For the most part, people have become lazy. They are used to their peaceful, easy lives. When something goes wrong, the _people_ don't do anything. They wait for one person--an Albus Dumbledore or a Harry Potter--to fix things for them. But eventually they will end up waiting too long and they will lose a war against the Dark, unless they learn to band together and fight for themselves."  
  
The boy was staring at him with wide eyes. He'd been alive during the last war, of course, but too young to feel its effects, other than being unable to go out alone to play and not going to shop in Diagon Alley for a year or so. The man in front of him, though, made war seem like something urgent and real. He asked, "But weren't there groups like the Order of the Phoenix?"  
  
"There was the Order," Draco agreed, but not very warmly, "and during Grindelwald's time there was the so-called Light Brigade. They both had their little missions--trying to foil minor plots and kicking up skirmishes. But in the last century or more, it has almost always come down to just one person doing the actual work to bring down the entire establishment."  
  
He noticed Hermione standing several feet away and listening to his conversation openly. He pulled a face, not wanting to be accused of anything. Standing up again, he muttered, "And there ends our history lesson." He brushed past Hermione and back to the Restricted Section. Hermione let him go with only a measuring look.  
  
When he got back to the table where Harry was waiting, he saw that the other man had a sour expression. He asked about it and Harry looked up at him in surprise. "That was quick," Harry said, still assuming that Draco had gone all the way down to the kitchens and back. Then he explained, "Oh, Hermione just wanted to talk to me about the possibility that someone really has been using spells like the Unplottable Charm on me. She wanted to know if I had any doubts about whether you could have had something to do with it, since she's afraid that McGonagall might bring it up tonight."  
  
"And you don't? I assume, since you're telling me about it."  
  
Harry laughed weakly. "If I still had any questions left, I could make you answer."  
  
"I told you not to waste your last question," Draco said, before reminding him happily, "I still have questions."  
  
Rolling his eyes, Harry said, "Yes, I know. But anyway, I don't really think you had anything to do with it. I can't see what good it would do you."  
  
"That's true," Draco mused, "in fact, if I'd known where you were earlier, I probably would have taken wild advantage of it, selling embarrassing photos of you to the press and making your whereabouts public so that you would be tormented by an endless stream of fan mail, love letters, and tourists."  
  
Harry shuddered just to hear it. He dragged a book back in front of him and said bleakly, "Back to work?"  
  
"Back to work," Draco agreed, his own voice becoming grim.  
  
They finished going through their current selections and then reshelved them before starting a new search. Draco remembered something Hermione had said the day before and asked suspiciously, "Didn't your mate say that she would be helping us out more today?"  
  
" _Apparently_ ," Harry said, not sounding like he believed it much himself, "she is doing so by getting us clearance to enter that damned 'vault' of hers. She made it sound like quite a lot of paperwork and spellwork to do." He put a couple more volumes back into their proper spaces. "I bet she's just using us as an excuse to get in--from what she said, even the professors at Hogwarts aren't allowed regular access. Only for special research projects can they get permission. That's how fragile and sensitive the stuff they keep down there is."  
  
Draco laughed. "I wouldn't be surprised--we're probably looking like a godsend, if we get her down there. Who's going to refuse Harry Potter, after all? Even if he is accompanied by, gasp, a _Malfoy_. She must be having nerdy, bookish orgasms this minute, as she thinks about all the rare _knowledge_ to be had."  
  
Harry made a horrified face, not wanting to even think of Hermione and orgasms in the same sentence. He didn't care if they were both mature, consenting adults--as far as he was concerned, Hermione would always be a skinny little eleven year old with big teeth who would never _ever_ have sex of any kind. Draco sniggered, guessing well what was going through Harry's prudish mind.  
  
He leaned close and whispered into Harry's ear in a very naughty tone, his breath tickling against the other man's neck, "That's right, Potter: sex. Sexy sex."  
  
A shiver ran through the dark-haired man, and he swatted Draco away from him like an annoying mosquito. "Ugh," he made a disgusted noise. "Just...ugh. No sexy sex for Hermione."  
  
Draco stepped away to put the last of his books away. "Shall I tell her you said so?"  
  
"Only if _you_ want to talk to Hermione Granger about _sex_ ," Harry said, hissing the last word under his breath.  
  
"Naw, she's not my type."  
  
Harry couldn't help asking, "Then who is? Pansy Parkinson?"  
  
Draco shuddered and it seemed real. "Oh, no, don't even say it." Then he raised his light eyebrows. "Though she does have lovely, dark hair." His eyes lingered on Harry and he said, "I am partial to dark hair."  
  
Harry felt a slight heat in his face and spoke rudely to hide it, "Probably because you're an albino yourself, you ferret."  
  
Draco seemed genuinely offended and went into a long lecture on how highly coveted his fair looks were and how it had taken hundreds of years of perfect breeding to look as perfect as he did. This led to Harry likening him to a pedigree dog and soon enough they were about to start another wrestling match right there in the library. It was probably for the best that the sound of their argument reached Madame Pince and had her running to the Restricted Section to scold them furiously. With a harsh promise to kick them out if she heard another single noise, she huffed back to her desk.  
  
The men went back to searching through the books, a bit sheepish and muttering unfavourable comments about Madame Pince and her surely inhuman disposition. They managed to search through the rest of the books and by the time they carted all of the ones worth investigating back to their work table, it was nearing three. They set themselves back to work furiously, determined to be done with the Restricted Section before dinner, since they hardly wanted to have to reshelve and then refind all the books if they left any until the next day. Draco had Harry pull out his wand again to perform a quick spell over all the books, which would highlight the words 'magic,' 'loss,' 'gain,' 'curse,' 'muggle,' 'squib,' and 'power' wherever they appeared in the thousands of pages. Now with their eyes darting from one highlighted section to the next, they flipped through the books quicker than ever before. If Draco had believed for a moment that they might actually find something useful, he would have taken his time to carefully read each page. But he was almost entirely convinced by now that if there was any hope to be found, it would lie between the pages of the rare texts in the Hogwarts vault.  
  
Just slightly after seven and already running late for dinner, Draco closed the cover on the last book. Harry had finished several minutes before and was already back in the stacks, reshelving his books. Draco's head fell back against his chair limply. He glanced under his eyelashes at the notes he'd made in his notebook. There were less than five pages. Two days straight of reading everything that the Restricted Section had to offer had resulted in less than five pages of notes, and most of them just describing crazy unsuccessful attempts of wizards to increase their power. Nowhere was there a single mention of an actual, completed curse that could take away a wizard's power, as had been done to Draco.  
  
Picking up the books tiredly, he reminded himself that the curse could have well been one of Voldemort's cruel inventions. The Dark Lord really had been a magical genius--the only known wizard to successfully split his soul into so many pieces and store each in a horcrux--and it could be that no one would ever know how he'd done it, let alone how it might be fixed. Draco had suspected as much since he'd first exhausted all the books in his family's sizeable library and found no clues. He carried his books over to where Harry was still shelving and said with exhausted amusement, "Can you imagine if Voldemort really created the curse himself? The curse to remove a wizard's magic--the very curse that his enemies wished to use against him? Of course _he_ would have thought it perfect irony to use on his enemies in return, the fucking bastard."  
  
Harry paused with a book in hand, looking up at Draco. This was the first time he'd heard Draco sound so venomous about the Dark Lord. Their fruitless research was obviously getting to him. The blond sighed and dropped to the ground, leaning against book shelves as his eyes fell shut. He let Harry continue to move around him, putting books away. "I guess," Draco admitted weakly, "that I really still had some hope left. I didn't think that I did. But being back here again--being surrounded by magic, living it, breathing it, flying in it..." His voice had grown so faint that it disappeared into the silence.  
  
Harry continued picking up the last of Draco's books to put away. He wasn't sure what else to do. Malfoy had never been this open with him, of his own will, without questions or tricks. He'd never been this serious, Harry didn't think, in any of their discussions. His eyes still shut against the useless books around them, Draco murmured, "I must have really believed that I could come back. But now that I'm back here, in the world that I grew up in, everything just reminds me of how--how _crippled_ I am." He opened a silver eye a crack and focussed on Harry. "I saw the look you gave me last night," he said wryly, "when you came in and I was sitting alone in the dark. As if I were just drunk and crazy."  
  
He opened both eyes then and looked down at his hands. "I couldn't even turn on the lights, Potter."  
  
Harry started, understanding flooded him with the pain and embarrassment Draco must have felt. He'd been a fool yet again, hadn't he?  
  
"There were no switches, no electricity, not even candles. All I could do was watch the fire dying." Harry placed the last book on its shelf and sat gingerly down next to the other man. Draco's eyes flicked toward him and then back to the ground. He continued, "At home, Merry knows to always keep all the lights on and fires going at night, unless I tell him not to. I know how to live there."  
  
He leaned almost imperceptibly against Harry, their shoulders brushing in the lightest of touches, and muttered, "I knew how to be normal there."  
  
The sat in silence for several minutes. Harry kept almost thinking of things to say, but then swallowing them unsurely. He wanted to say that it was all his fault, that they'd find a way, that he was sorry, that Draco was just being a prat, that things hadn't been that great in Wiltshire anyway, that--  
  
But before he said anything, Draco shook himself from his reverie. He sat up straighter and said lightly, "We've already missed half of dinner. If we want to get anything to eat before our little soiree with McGonagall, we'd better get going."  
  
Draco jumped to his feet and held a hand out to Harry expectantly. Harry reached up unthinkingly to take it and Draco jerked him to his feet, before hurrying back to the worktable to gather his notebook and bag. He met Harry back at the entrance to the Restricted Section, with a cheeky, "Shall we?"  
  
Harry was still looking at him with a serious, slightly sad expression. Draco punched him lightly in the shoulder and admonished him, "Come on now, Potter. It's not the end of the world. You should know--you were nearly there."  
  
He led them both back down to the Great Hall yet again and even though they were late and even though he had said all those things earlier, he sauntered into the crowded room oozing confidence and charm. Harry shuffled after him, and they headed to the two empty seats, once again, at the end of the table. The staff looked at them curiously, as did the students eating their dinners, and Hermione hissed as they passed her, "Where have you two been?!"  
  
They took their seats and food appeared on their plates instantly. They barely had time to finish their meal (and for Draco to finish half a bottle of wine) before dinner ended and McGonagall looked down at their end of the table expectantly. They both stood up obediently and joined her at the centre of the table, then she whisked them out of the room. They took the long path to the Headmistress's office in silence and Harry couldn't help a little shiver of apprehension. He still remembered walking this route.  
  
They paused in front of the phoenix statue that guarded the entrance to McGonagall's office. The woman said sharply, "Deep-fried Mars bars," and then with one amused glance at Draco's surprised face, she stepped onto the rotating staircase that had appeared behind the statue. The men scrambled on after her and they were all transported up into the tower.  
  
The inside of the office hadn't changed as much as Harry might have expected. McGonagall had chosen to keep the various magical bric-a-brac that had typified the room as Dumbledore's, while adding little touches of her own. Harry sat in the lefthand chair in front of the Headmistress's desk, the one he had always sat in during visits with Dumbledore. He craned his head up and found the old wizard's portrait on the wall, feigning sleep as all the past headmasters and headmistresses did when there were visitors around. As Harry watched the familiar old face, though, one sky-blue eye peeked open. From behind a painted set of half-moon glasses, Dumbledore's gaze slid from Harry to Draco and then back again. He gave Harry a subtle wink and then his eyes fell shut again.  
  
Harry couldn't help smiling, even though he still felt a slight stinging pain behind his eyes. He felt as if Dumbledore, with that one telling glance, had wanted to remind him of the last time the three of them had been together: on the top of the Astronomy Tower, with Harry paralysed under his father's Invisibility cloak and Dumbledore trying to convince Draco to redeem himself. He wanted to tell Dumbledore that it had worked; that Draco had done the right thing in the end. But of course Dumbledore knew. He'd never doubted it.  
  
Speaking of Draco, the blond had taken the other chair in front of the desk and was reaching inside his bag for something. He pulled out an expensive looking bottle and placed it on the table in front of McGonagall, who had taken her own seat behind the broad desk. She raised her thin eyebrows and picked up the bottle of port to look at the label appreciatively. She snapped her fingers and three small glasses appeared on her tabletop, one before each of them. Breaking the seal on the bottle, she filled a glass for Malfoy and then one for herself. She looked at Harry inquisitively and he nodded, still goggling at the sight of McGonagall and Malfoy sharing a companionable port after dinner.  
  
When all three of them had glasses of port in hand, McGonagall raised hers slightly and offered, "To those who have gone."  
  
Harry raised his glass silently in return and Draco said back cheekily, "To auld lang syne."  
  
Then they all took sips of the heavy and sweet fortified wine. McGonagall was examining Malfoy again with a sharp eye, seeming more interested in him now than in her former student, Harry. Her question was directed at the blond--perhaps because she knew he was the reason that both men had come to Hogwarts or perhaps just because she wanted to hear what he had to say--when she asked, "How are you finding things back at Hogwarts?"  
  
Draco drank from his small port glass before answering, "Quite well. Our research has been progressing quickly, though with little results yet. Granger told us of a vault where most of the real texts are kept, and we're hoping to move on to its stores soon, since we have already exhausted the library's Restricted Section."  
  
"Yes, we should be able to arrange that," McGonagall agreed cautiously.  
  
"I also," Draco continued demurely, "seem to recall a promise of biscuits?"  
  
The old battleaxe herself, McGonagall cracked a small smile at the man's gall. She snapped her fingers again and this time, a tray of shortbread appeared on the table. "Since you seem so fond of Scottish culture," she quipped.  
  
Draco took a finger of shortbread without complaint and after a moment, Harry did the same. McGonagall declined to take a biscuit but did take another sip of port. "I must tell you," she said, speaking again in Draco's direction, "that I had an interesting talk with Professor Granger this afternoon."  
  
Draco only cocked one eyebrow in silent question and waited for her to continue, which she did. "She seems to think that you, Mr Malfoy, would prove useful in supervising our history classes, at least until a suitable replacement can be found."  
  
Draco choked slightly on his biscuit, but showed little other reaction. After painfully swallowing down the brittle crumbs that had stuck in his throat, he asked blandly, "Is that so?"  
  
"Yes." McGonagall leaned forward a bit in her seat. "At the moment, we have Mr Filch watching the classes, but of course he doesn't teach them anything, only makes sure that no one ends up in the Hospital Wing. Professor Granger thought that you might be able to do a better job, perhaps even get them to focus on their studies."  
  
Smiling narrowly, Draco suggested, "So you're hoping to switch one squib for another? Do you think we'll last longer than the wizards have?"  
  
McGonagall seemed a bit surprised to hear Draco refer to himself as a squib, but she only said, "I'd be willing to have you take the classes on a temporary basis, if you'd care to. That way Mr Filch can get back to his regular duties, the students will still be supervised, and you would even have an excuse to be here at Hogwarts for the time being."  
  
"I see," Draco murmured. "It is all quite convenient, then, isn't it."  
  
Harry wedged his way in to the conversation and asked, "Aren't you concerned about having thirty mad students, all determined to get rid of their professor, pointing their wands at you? And do you just expect me to carry on with your research, while you gallivant around with students?"  
  
Draco's lips curled familiarly and he practically purred, "What are you saying, Potter? That you'd rather come 'protect' me in classes than do research?"  
  
Harry blinked. It had sounded something like that, though. "Well, it's hardly fair if I'm the only one doing any work."  
  
McGonagall inserted dryly, "I can assure you, Mr Potter, that being a professor is most definitely work."  
  
Harry couldn't help an angry flush and he backpedaled, saying, "Of course it is." He still glared at the blond next to him. "I just meant--oh, never mind what I meant."  
  
Draco picked up the bottle of port to refill McGonagall's glass and then his own. He asked the headmistress, "Could Potter tag along as well, then? And if we are doing you this favour by supervising your class, would you allow us to take texts from the vault, so that we can still make some progress on our research?"  
  
McGonagall picked up her freshly refilled glass and drank from it thoughtfully. Books were occasionally lent out of the vault (though they never left Hogwarts herself) but it was usually a privilege awarded only to the most trusted and prestigious scholars. She didn't really _need_ Malfoy that much.  
  
She looked over the blond in front of her once more. His face was schooled into a blandly confident mask, as if it didn't matter to him either way. Perhaps it really didn't. But he seemed to have grown from the sneaky boy she had once taught Transfiguration to. She remembered how he had faced her request that they come to her office fearlessly and even mockingly. And she recognised a little piece of her former colleague, Severus, in that brazen disregard. She didn't _need_ Malfoy, but she did _want_ to see what he could make of her impossible students.  
  
"I will allow it. Though never more than three books at a time. I won't have piles of our most valuable manuscripts lying around where any student could pick them up. In return, you will take the history of magic classes beginning tomorrow, with the third years."  
  
Draco nodded and leaned forward, holding his hand across the desk for her to shake. Once again she was slightly surprised by the _Muggleness_ of the gesture. Not that wizards didn't shake hands, but most would not trust any less than a magically binding contract when agreeing to something. She clamped her hand firmly around his and gave it a quick shake. That would take care of the classes until she could find a proper replacement yet again.  
  
Almost as an afterthought, she turned to Harry, who had been left out of most of the conversation. He was still blinking and looking slightly dazed at the prospect of _Malfoy_ being offered a position at Hogwarts, even a temporary one. No one was offering him anything of the sort, and he was Harry fucking Potter, as the writing on his forehead still declared.  
  
After answering McGonagall's remaining questions about what had brought them to Hogwarts and what exactly they were hoping to accomplish during their stay, the two men were released back out onto the spiral staircase. They rode down in silence and finally Harry asked, "Why the hell did you have a bottle of port in your bag?"


	17. In Which There Is Shameless Flirting

**Chapter Seventeen**  
_In Which There Is Shameless Flirting_  
  
AS IT TURNED OUT, THE port had come via Merry, along with Draco's beloved magical decanter. Harry wondered if his own house elf was even still alive--he hadn't called on Kreacher once since Dumbledore had asked him to in sixth year and the nasty creature had hardly been spry even back then. He soon forgot to even wonder about it, though, after a couple of drinks from Draco's bottomless bottle. Draco had more than a few himself and long before Harry crawled into the broad, soft bed for the night, Draco had passed out on the sofa.  
  
When Harry finally and unhappily woke again, head feeling a bit swollen from his drinks the night before, he found his face buried in a pillow. He was on his stomach. But he never slept on his stomach. And there was a strange weight on top of him. Still half-smothered by the pillow and mostly fuzzy from a couple too many drinks the night before, he gave a distressed, pitiful moan. He was answered by a familiar soft laugh, which certainly meant that Malfoy was nearby and probably that the man was laughing at his expense. Then Harry realised what the weight on top of him was. It was Malfoy. And the odd tickling feeling he hadn't really noticed before was surely Malfoy's damned pen yet again.  
  
Harry shoved himself up from the bed, bucking Malfoy off his back. He turned to glare at the blond, who was grinning up at him unrepentantly from the floor. But then he saw Malfoy's face and couldn't help falling back to the bed, laughing raucously.  
  
Draco's smile faded slightly and he looked quizzically at Harry. "Why are you so amused?" he asked suspiciously.  
  
Harry couldn't entirely stifle his laughter as he said tearfully, "Clearly you haven't yet looked in the mirror this morning?"  
  
Draco's face blanched and he ran to the bathroom. "What do you mean--" His urgent question broke off into silence as he noticed exactly what Harry had meant, and he stalked back into the bedroom with a scowl, which only made Harry laugh harder. Draco snarled, "You little _bitch_."  
  
"I warned you, Malfoy," Harry said, having to gasp the words out between laughing fits. "Payback." He looked up at the angry blond and managed to say, "You really shouldn't drink till you pass out when you know that someone has it in for you." Then he dissolved into desperate laughter again.  
  
Eventually Harry managed to stop laughing long enough to get out of bed and go look in the mirror himself, to see what Malfoy had done to him this morning. Craning his head around to see his back's reflection, he found that Malfoy had apparently worked for quite a while on a caricature of Harry, looking like some ridiculous hero from the cover of a romance novel, complete with puffy-sleeved blousy shirt. The cartoon Harry was standing over a defeated Voldemort, with several busty young witches swooning around him. Fancy lettering ran like a title across his shoulder blades, reading _Harry Potter and his Immense...Ego_.  
  
He didn't really mind at all today, though. For one thing, his front was already covered with the other man's handiwork. For another, it could (mostly) all be covered with clothing. Malfoy, on the other hand, could not hide what Harry had done. The best he could do was hope that no one would notice. Which clearly wasn't going to be the case because as soon as they met Hermione to go to breakfast, she looked at the blond for a long moment, as if trying to figure out what looked _wrong_ about him, then asked in an incredulous voice, "Malfoy, what did you do to your eyebrows?"  
  
Draco made a big show of being angry and put upon as he told her, "Your Saint Potter shaved them half off while I was sleeping!"  
  
Harry was laughing again and Hermione asked in bewilderment, "Why just half?"  
  
One arm slung around Draco's shoulders, Harry had to lean on the blond to support himself as he laughed hysterically. "It really isn't _that_ funny," Draco told him in a withering tone.  
  
"It's much better," Harry gasped, "to shave just half--because then he has to decide whether he wants to either leave them like that, and look like a fool, or shave them both and have no eyebrows, and look like a fool." He glanced up again at Draco's scornful face, inches from his own. "He chose the former."  
  
Hermione simply shook her head at the two of them and headed to breakfast without them, leaving them to continue to bicker as they got ready to go. By the time they made it to breakfast, there were only two empty seats left at the Head Table--one at the far end, next to Hermione, and one between Professor Vector and Marianthi. Draco hurried and took the far seat with Hermione, forcing Harry to reluctantly drop down next to the Divination professor. Smirking at the other man, who was obviously trying to fend off Marianthi's attention, Draco didn't half mind the strange looks he was receiving from those close enough to notice that he seemed to be missing half his eyebrows. He couldn't quite ignore the witch next to him, though, when she asked pointedly, "You're planning on sitting here with me?"  
  
"Well, clearly," he answered smoothly, "since I have done."  
  
She could hardly tell him to switch with Harry, who she had obviously meant to take the seat next to her. Draco nodded down the table, to where Marianthi appeared to be buttering a croissant for a painfully embarrassed Harry, and suggested, "Isn't it much more entertaining this way?"  
  
Hermione looked down towards Harry and the Divination professor, who several of the students were now watching as well, and she looked back at Draco with a slightly perplexed expression. "You mean it was serious--when Harry said that you were trying to make him date Marianthi?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"But why?"  
  
Draco calmly sipped his tea. "Because it's entertaining."  
  
"You mean you don't--" Hermione began to ask in a puzzled voice, but Draco cut her off before she could finish.  
  
"If you want to talk about Potter and his whole host of problems," the man said, "how about the apparent way that he was spelled into hiding?"  
  
Hermione's face dropped. She began shredding the pastry in her hands, leaving a pile of sugary flakes on her plate, and she admitted, "I haven't forgot what you said." Her voice was diplomatically neutral as she asked, "Can you tell me what you know about it? Or what you think you know about it?"  
  
Draco shrugged, as if he didn't want to appear too helpful, but he answered all the same. "The way that neither you nor anyone else from the press, the government, or the greater Wizarding world could find Potter suggests of course that he has been kept from sight through, well, supernatural means." He looked at her with mangled eyebrows raised. "I'm sure that you must have tried every possible kind of tracking or locating spell. And I'm sure others probably tried even less scrupled methods."  
  
Hermione said in a small voice, "Even we became quite unscrupulous after a couple of years without any leads."  
  
Draco had no reaction but to say reasonably, "And too right you would. There was no normal way that he should have remained lost even after all that. I'm sure you tried charms like the Vevicus Veritas?"  
  
With a slight wince, Hermione agreed to having tried the Dark charm and Draco said, "Then you knew that he was alive and yet still you couldn't find him." He poured sugar into the cup of tea in front of him and began to stir it. "I lived in the same county as him and probably never would have known it if we hadn't run into each other by complete chance."  
  
"You said that you were in an...accident?"  
  
"That's right," Draco said, still stirring his tea. "I was out on my bike, just taking a drive on a nice day. Who knows what Potter was doing, but he was out in his car. We were screwing around, racing, but when he realised just who I was," Draco paused and grinned ferally, "he drove into a bloody hillside." Then his face screwed up ruefully and he added, "Of course, then I turned around to see what had happened and I lost control as well.  
  
"Anyway, the point of the story was that I wasn't looking for him and didn't even know who he was at the time. If I had barged into that town and asked for Harry Potter by name, I'd guess that I wouldn't find anything. Same if I tried to apparate to his home, if I could even do so. I know where he lives only because he let me in."  
  
Looking past Hermione, Draco eyed the man at the other end of the table, who was still trying pathetically to fend off Marianthi's eager wiles. "You could never find him," he said coolly, "but I could, since he took me in himself. If it really is something like the Fidelius charm, then only the Secret Keeper could let me see the house. But even Potter didn't seem to realise if he was the Secret Keeper. Which would have to mean that someone else had performed the charm, without him knowing about it. And his only other visitor--who he claims to have never told where he lives--was the young Weasley brat, which makes her the prime suspect. How could she know where to find him, unless she had something to do with the spell herself?"  
  
Hermione couldn't deny it any more now than she could when she'd first heard the theory from Malfoy in his rented room above the Green Dragon. She sighed. "I suppose I'd better at least ask Ginny to come to Hogwarts, to ask her some questions. She should be dying to come anyway, now that even she must have heard about Harry's appearance here."  
  
Draco hummed consideringly. He wasn't so sure that she'd be on the first train to Hogwarts. Then he said what Hermione had been trying not to think: "If she really did have something to do with it, why was she hiding it all these years and still pretending to be searching with you? You said that she was always the most eager to find Potter. If she knew all along just where he was, then why the act?"  
  
"Well," Hermione said briskly, squashing down her niggling feelings of doubt, "we can't really make any assumptions before we talk to her. Perhaps I ought to be off to try to owl her this morning, even."  
  
She made as if to stand up and leave, and Draco stopped her with a light touch on her wrist. "Two things before you go," he said, and as always he seemed to be telling her, not asking her. "Can Potter and I get into this vault of yours today? And why did you tell McGonagall to put me in charge of the history classes?"  
  
Her dark brown eyes brightened for a moment at the mention of the elusive vault of Hogwarts' treasures. She explained, "Yes, you should be able to get in today. I think it would be best if I took you, so would you like to wait until lunch?" Draco nodded noncommittally but still looked at her expectantly, and she slumped slightly back into her chair, realising that he wouldn't forget wanting an answer to his second question. "I recommended you because I saw the way that you spoke with that student in the library yesterday. And because the students will be scared spitless of you, and might actually be frightened back into shape. And...oh, I don't know why. We had no one to fill the spot and there you appeared. I just proposed it to the Headmistress, really--I didn't expect that she would actually talk to you about it."  
  
Draco said wryly, "Clearly she has." But he didn't press for any more information just yet. Hermione made to stand up again and Draco asked, a subtle jibe, "Shall I ask McGonagall about getting into the vault if we don't wish to wait for your convenience?"  
  
It was enough to make Hermione bite her lip and say quickly, "No, no, that's all right. You can...go on without me." It was clear the words pained her. "Just ask Madame Pince. And I could just meet you down there later, maybe." In her mind, she silently cursed her classes--and she normally liked her classes--but at the moment they were standing between her and the greatest treasures that Hogwarts had to offer. She suggested, her desire transparent, "Why don't I meet you at lunch anyway, and I can help you sort through all the texts and records."  
  
Draco eyed her in a way that made her feel sure that he could see right through her, but he nodded, saying blandly, "Of course. Such a great help." She frowned, unable to tell if he was complimenting or ridiculing her, and hurried away from the Head Table. Draco quickly finished his own breakfast and threw his napkin on the table, ready to make for the infamous vaults. As he stood up to go, though, McGonagall caught his eye and then cleared her throat significantly. He went to stand next to her centre chair and she handed him a small roll of parchment, with only the brief explanation: "Your timetable, Mr Malfoy. Good luck."  
  
His roguish grin quickly returned and he assured her, "I won't need any luck. My natural... _charm_ is more than enough."  
  
Smiling grimly, McGonagall said, "I'm not sure even your particular abilities are enough for our hopeless students."  
  
"Care to make a wager on it?" Draco suggested with a cocked brow and a dimple.  
  
McGonagall blinked at him. She was willing to ignore whatever he had done to his face, but she'd never imagined that a Malfoy could dimple. Or wager on his own pride. "Show me what you can do, Mr Malfoy."  
  
Smiling to himself, Draco continued down the line of the Head Table. When he passed behind Harry, he flicked the dark-haired man in the back of the neck. Harry slapped a hand to his neck in annoyed pain and when he turned to glare, Draco mouthed, " _Library._ " Eager for the excuse to get away from Marianthi, who had clearly been encouraged by his 'choosing' to sit next to her, Harry jumped up to join him.  
  
  
  
  
The two men arrived in the History classroom just ten minutes before the first class was due to start. They looked around the empty room, both remembering sitting in the desks that ranged in a half-circle, scaling the room in auditorium seating. On the other side of the room, the side on which they now belonged, was a large blackboard in a creaky wooden frame, set on wheels that looked as if they hadn't turned in a hundred years or more. There was also a wide table in the centre of the room, empty at the moment but previously home to various teachers' effects. Draco pulled himself up to sit on top of the table and look at Harry expectantly. "Don't you think you should summon up a desk or something, to sit in the corner and read?"  
  
Harry looked unenthusiastically at the books in his hands, which were all about translating and decoding spells. He'd been disappointed to find out that Draco wasn't heading immediately for the vault this morning, but instead insisted that Harry would need to study the spells necessary to tackle the books they would find within it. "Why should I sit in the corner and read?" he asked in a prickly tone. Though they were in Binns' old classroom, Draco's tone brought back memories of another classroom, deep in the dungeons and smelling of unpleasant potions ingredients.  
  
"Would you rather sit in front of the class with me," Draco asked mildly, "and be subjected to all the students' questions about your life and 'accomplishments'?" He rolled his eyes at the last word, clearly still not impressed with anything Harry had managed to do in his life.  
  
"I'll take the corner."  
  
Harry said no more, but pulled out his wand and conjured up a small desk to sit in a dark corner behind the door. The only windows in the room were high in the wall behind him, which left the sunlight to fall on the students in their desks and leave him mostly in the shadows. Draco sat in the middle of it all, on top of his empty desk.  
  
Harry set his books in front of him, as he took a seat in his conjured chair. "So what class is this?"  
  
Draco consulted the piece of parchment that he had folded flat and put in his back pocket. "A pack of damned Gryffindorks. Third years."  
  
Harry grinned vindictively and said, "What a way to start--with your favourite house. And I'm not sure you should refer to your dear students like that."  
  
Shrugging, Draco said, "My dear students can bugger off if they're expecting another easy scare." And he was certainly beyond anything they could expect. Draco and Harry were both still dressed in blatantly Muggle clothing, all of it from Draco's imported closet, and looked nothing like any professor who had ever come through the doors at Hogwarts. Even the professor who taught Muggle Studies wore robes every day. And he was not nearly as young or attractive as either of the two men who watched the young witches and wizards file into the room.  
  
As the classroom filled, Harry watched secretively from over the top of the book that he held open in front of him. Draco continued to sit easily on top of the teacher's table, his hands planted behind him and his feet swinging idly. When all the class had assembled, they shuffled about uselessly, some pulling out textbooks or parchment, others continuing their conversations and gossip as they examined the blond man in front of them. The whispers and comments continued as Draco watched them all silently in return. Several minutes passed, and still he said nothing, nor did he make any attempt to bring the class to order. The students began nudging each other and laughing nervously. But still Draco said nothing and simply sat watching them with his inscrutable grey eyes and slowly swinging his legs.  
  
The conversations faded. Even the constant hiss of whispers disappeared. The students, silenced into curiosity, stared at their new lecturer to see what he would do. But still Draco did nothing, other than perhaps smirk the tiniest bit.  
  
He stared easily out at the young faces, taking note of family resemblances and guessing at identities. He broke his relentless grey stare for a moment to turn back towards Harry and wink. This brought the students' attention to Harry, who they hadn't noticed sitting in the corner, and a new wave of whispers began. But even it could not last long under Draco's steady eyes. Silence stretched again and finally, a full fifteen minutes after the class had been set to start, one young boy called tauntingly, "Aren't you going to do anything, then?"  
  
Draco focussed on the boy and remarked, "I can't answer questions if I don't know who I'm talking to."  
  
This threw the student for a moment and one of his neighbours elbowed him, hissing, "Your name, you git."  
  
"Oh." The boy belatedly replied, "Brown. I'm Geoffrey Brown."  
  
Draco wrinkled his nose slightly. "Related to Lavender Brown, I suppose?"  
  
The boy called Geoffrey started and muttered, "I have an aunt called Lavender."  
  
"And your question, Mr Brown?"  
  
Sounding less confident this time, the lad asked again, "Only aren't you going to do anything?"  
  
"What would you, Mr Brown, suggest that I should be doing?" Draco asked in his deceptively mild tone. Even the young Gryffindor seemed to pick up on the danger that swam beneath it. He looked as if he wanted to be away from Draco's focus now, but he couldn't do anything more than fidget.  
  
"Um, start the lesson?" he mumbled, his classmates sniggering at him.  
  
Draco continued to swing his legs easily and he said, "I was given the impression that you lot weren't interested in history lessons." He finally pulled his merciless eyes from the young boy and turned on a girl in the second row. "You there," he called to her, "yes, you. Your name?"  
  
"Flora MacDonald," the girl said defiantly, a Scots accent not quite educated out of her voice.  
  
Draco looked at her critically. "MacDonald? There is no pureblood family by the name of MacDonald. Muggleborn, are you?"  
  
Her face tinged pink, she nodded shortly. Draco continued to ask, "And, Ms MacDonald, do you agree with your classmate, Mr Brown, in suggesting that I should start a history lesson?"  
  
She nodded tightly again, her stubborn little face already twisted with defiant dislike. Draco then stopped swinging his legs and asked, "Then what would you like to know, Ms MacDonald?"  
  
She floundered for a moment. " _You're_ the teacher!" she finally exclaimed.  
  
"Yes," Draco said in a bored tone, "and it's _your_ class and _your_ mind which I am trying to improve. Do you not want any input or control over what goes into your own mind?"  
  
"Well, I won't know what I want to know until I learn it!" she protested, looking around at her friends for confirmation that the new teacher was a new breed of insane.  
  
Draco turned the question on the whole classroom of Gryffindors. "Doesn't anyone have any idea what he or she wants to know?"  
  
There was another unsure silence, as the students looked at one another self-consciously. Someone in the back called out provocatively, "I want to know what happened to your face!"  
  
There was a round of sniggering and Draco raised his mangled eyebrows, before stating, "I have a bastard for a roommate." Then he resumed his wait and silence spread through the students again. Most of them looked down at their desktops, unable to meet Draco's demanding gaze for long.  
  
Finally one dared say what was on most of their minds: "Tell us about the war."  
  
"Which one?"  
  
" _The_ war."  
  
"Which one?" Draco looked out across the third-years. "There have been many wars in history--more than you can even imagine."  
  
The brave student spoke up again. "Well then, the last one. We want to know about the war against You-Know-Who."  
  
Draco turned to grimace at Harry, and grumble, "Good god, are they still teaching kids to call him that?"  
  
Harry looked disparagingly at Draco but still didn't speak up in front of the students. Draco turned back to the little buggers, who were now perking up with interest. "So," he said, "you want to know about the war against Voldemort?" There was a quiet chorus of gasps. "And I bet you want to know all about me being a Death Eater and Potter saving the world?"  
  
The same outspoken student interrupted. "So it's _true_? You were a--a Death Eater?"  
  
"The last free Death Eater," Draco exclaimed, spreading his arms dramatically, though the gesture looked less impressive since he was still sitting upon a beat-up old desk. "And I will teach you all about Voldemort and his war. But before you can understand the war, you have to understand what led to it--to understand how a Head Boy at Hogwarts became the monster you call 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.'" More curious murmurs. "And to do that you have to go all the way back to the beginning, and understand why Wizardingkind and Muggles came to hate and fear one another and why having pure blood become so important--important enough to kill over."  
  
Deciding that he'd said enough for the day, Draco gave them their assignment. "I want several of you to research the original split between the Wizarding and the Muggle worlds. Madame Pince will be able to point you in the right direction, but I personally recommend Flannigan's _A People Divided_ , Hilstijn's _The New Direction_ , and Wigglesworth's _A History of History_. I will expect you to be able to explain what you learned to your fellow students next week."  
  
He said nothing more but waved the students off. They stared back at him in confusion. "But who's supposed to do it?" one asked belligerently.  
  
Draco shrugged. "I don't care. Whoever is interested."  
  
"What?" The students began to protest. "But that's--"  
  
Cutting them off, Draco explained flatly, "Look. It's not my job to make you learn. You're students--it's your job to learn. All I have to do is show you how. I've done that. Now it's up to you." He waved his hands at them again. "Now get lost."  
  
"But class isn't over yet--"  
  
One more sharp glance from Draco and the students began picking up their bags and making their way out of the room, still muttering about the new teacher. Most looked more than a little confounded. They'd never seen a teacher act like this before and weren't sure if it was terrible or great.  
  
Once the door had swung shut after the last student, Draco turned back to Harry. "So have you figured out those translation spells?"  
  
"What?" Harry said absently. He glanced at the book in front of him. He hadn't read a single page but had been inconspicuously watching Draco and the students for the whole of the short class. "Um, not quite. But I'll have them done before we get down to researching." He pushed the books away from himself and asked, "So do you have any sort of plan? Or are you just making this up as you go along?"  
  
Draco grinned. "What, the classes? I'd probably lean more towards 'making it up as I go along.'"  
  
"Do you really think any of them will do the work?"  
  
Shrugging, Draco tugged on his hair, trying to pull it down to cover his lacking eyebrows. "Don't know. Probably. Aren't kids naturally curious? Besides, they really want to hear about you and me--they might do the assignment just for that."  
  
Draco started swinging his legs again and asked sweetly, "So how was breakfast with _Marianthi_ this morning?"  
  
Harry shot him a deathly glare and the two spent the rest of their free time mock-fighting over Harry's 'relationship' with the Divination professor until the next class began to arrive. Then they shut up and Draco swung back around to face a new set of third years, this time Hufflepuffs, with his face schooled into bland patience. The game began again.  
  
  
  
  
By mid-afternoon they had made it through all of the third-year classes, each time with Harry sitting silently in the corner and Draco baiting his new students. Luckily there were no advanced classes that day, so Draco didn't have to contend with any NEWT students, at least. Still, the third year students were more than proficient enough to start rumours and gossip flying about the Death Eater who had taken over their history classes.  
  
Stretching tiredly, though he had spent most of the day just sitting on top of a desk and staring unrelentingly at students, Draco walked over to the small desk where Harry was seated. "So, figured it all out, have you? That was supposed to be the deal."  
  
Harry snapped his book shut with a final-sounding _thwack_. He glared up at Draco, as if disappointed that the other man was doubting him. "Of course I've figured it all out. Translating charms. No big deal, right?"  
  
"You have no idea, do you?"  
  
"Not a single fucking clue."  
  
Draco laughed at his research partner and dragged him out of his seat. As he propelled them out the door and towards the library, he said, "Well, at least Hermione should be able to handle any translating. She'll be happy to do anything as long as we bring her into that vault with us."  
  
And indeed she was already waiting for them in the library. She must have run all the way there, because her last DADA class ended at the same time as the last history class. She was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet and as soon as she saw the two men enter the library, she hustled over to Madame Pince's desk without even waiting for them to catch up with her.  
  
As they drew closer, she was waving them over to the librarian's desk eagerly. "Come on," she hissed, "we're ready to go."  
  
The men shared a look, mixed up of amusement and scorn. But they followed her, as she followed Madame Pince, behind the librarian's desk and into a room that none of them had ever been allowed into as students. It was mostly just full of more sorting tables and books waiting to be repaired, but at the far end was a rather out-of-place door. The rest of the room was the regular smooth, grey stonework of the castle, lit by magical lamps, but the door--the door was hardly a door but rather just a huge rock, like you might imagine standing in a stone circle. It was at least ten feet tall and looked to be several feet thick. It must have weighed tonnes, and Harry guessed that even the most powerful levitation spell wouldn't lift it an inch. Protective charms seemed to ooze off it with a palpable aura of magic.  
  
Either ignorant of this heavy feeling of magic, or simply ignoring it, Madame Pince walked up to the door and put her bare hands on the rough stone. All three of her visitors gasped when she swung the stone aside, shifting the several tonnes of rock aside with as much ease as swinging open a cupboard door. The old woman explained sourly, "I will close the door after you. Only I can open it. When you wish to come out again, pull on the cord you'll find just inside the door and it will ring a bell on my desk."  
  
Then she stood aside and waited for them to walk into the darkness behind the door. Harry looked at Hermione a bit suspiciously. This had better be worth it. But he led the way, lighting his wand with a quick Lumos spell and stepping into the dark shadows. He was surprised to find himself standing at the top of a set of _very_ roughly formed stairs--so rough that he wasn't sure if they were natural or man-made. One hand on the stone wall to brace himself, he started down into the cavern that lay deep within the castle. Draco followed after him, depending on Harry's wandlight, and Hermione took up the rear.  
  
They all jumped when they heard the stone slam shut behind them and, now that Madame Pince was out of earshot, Draco asked the cave in general, "So does anyone else have a newfound respect and curiosity about Pince? To be given control over all of Hogwarts' resources--places that even the Headmaster or Headmistress can't freely go..."  
  
"I guess I never really thought of her before," Harry said, a bit embarrassed.  
  
"She doesn't ever join the rest of the staff," came Hermione's voice from behind them. Neither man dared turn around on the uneven steps. "I don't know anything about her, really--now that I think of it. She doesn't seem to talk to anyone."  
  
Draco's grin could be heard in his voice as he suggested, "I'll bet you ten quid that she's not even human. After all, she hasn't seemed to age at all since we started here, what, twelve years ago?"  
  
Harry and Draco came up with more and more wild theories about what kind of creature the librarian could be, Hermione pointing out why each was impossible, as they continued carefully down the steps. Unexpectedly, Harry stepped down and found that he'd reach the last step. He stumbled slightly on the sudden ground and Draco fell into him, grabbing him from behind and pushing him out of the way. Hermione stepped around the two of them.  
  
They seemed to be in a larger space, though nothing could be seen from the little light their wands produced. Harry held his wand higher and cried, "Lumos maximus!" Bright white light exploded from his wand tip and filled the cavernous space, which looked exactly like that: a cavern. The cave walls stretched out in craggy formations, but roughly formed a long oval room. "Er," he asked stupidly, "where are all the books?"  
  
This time Hermione stepped forward, wand in hand. With an easy flick, she muttered a strange bit of Latin and suddenly a surprisingly uncavelike room popped into existence around them. Hermione smirked at the two men and explained, "Madame Pince gave us a temporary password--she told me all about it before you two finally arrived. She'll change the password each time we leave, so we always have to ask her permission to come down." She frowned and sounded slightly disappointed as she said, "Apparently the room and its contents are stowed away in a non-space--rather like the Room of Requirement--and without the correct password, you could walk every inch of this cave, using every spell you knew, and be no closer to it."  
  
Harry nodded, which didn't mean that he understood what Hermione said so much as he just didn't care to hear any more about it. He knew she'd probably be happy to launch into a lecture about 'non-space,' whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. He glanced at Draco and found that the blond was looking around with a carefully schooled face, which was too blank to actually be blank. It was full of a harshly suppressed _something_.  
  
The room that they were in still had the rough stone walls and ceilings, but was lined with bookshelves, much like those in the library above their heads, only these were shuttered in with glass doors and, Harry was willing to bet, a good number of protective and preservative spells. There was a long central table running through the room, lined with comfortable-looking armchairs that must have also required some preservative magic, and between several of the shelves were glass cases--rather like those you saw in fancy shops--which were filled with glinting artefacts of various forms, all with little hand-labelled tags hanging off of them.  
  
Draco moved toward the first row of shelves on his right and said, "Now we're going to have to be more careful and thorough this time. We won't depend on searching spells, but will check each book by hand. Potter and Granger, you will start with any texts that need translating, since I can't do so much of that. My Latin is rusty and my Old English is almost non-existent."  
  
Under his breath, Harry muttered mockingly, "Oh, my Latin is rusty. And my Phoenician terrible. Hieroglyphics? Oh, well, you know, all part of a proper education..."  
  
Draco shot him a barely tolerating look. He had already pulled out several books which would need translating and he pushed them into Harry's hands. Hermione ignored them and pulled off several titles to translate as well, and then Draco picked out a couple which were in either Early Modern English or Middle English, which he should be able to stumble through. They took seats in the strangely not-musty armchairs and carefully opened the fragile parchment pages in front of them.


	18. In Which There Are Rash Actions

**Chapter Eighteen**   
_In Which There Are Rash Actions_   
  
  
THE NEXT MORNING, HARRY WOKE up shivering, because--he quickly realised--he was lying in the stone corridor outside of his and Draco's rooms, wearing nothing but his shorts, and of course his wand was nowhere in sight. Waking up like that works better than any amount of coffee, and Harry immediately bolted straight to his feet. He looked around the hall wildly, tugging at his shorts as if they could hide any more of him. But there was no one around to see him. Yet.   
  
Harry knew with blinding clarity--the type that he usually didn't experience without nearly fatal amounts of caffeine--that before long, every one of Hogwarts' professors would leave their cosy chambers for this hallway, which was the only way to get to breakfast in the Great Hall. He pounded quietly but insistently on the door in front of him, hissing, "Malfoy, you are so fucking dead when I get you and my wand alone in a room together. In fact, leave the wand out of it, I'll strangle you with my bare hands!" He kept rapping his knuckles against the door until he realised that the sound was carrying down the hall and would soon bring someone out to investigate. "Malfoy, _open this door!_ "   
  
There was a nearly convincing silence emanating from the thick wooden door. Still Harry fancied he was hearing the thick silence of someone suppressing explosive laughter. Breathing angrily through his nose, he looked reluctantly down the hall. He knew Malfoy well enough to know that he was hardly going to throw the door open in the nick of time and let Harry in, laughing and slapping him on the back companionably. No, that was what a Gryffindor might've done. Malfoy would let Harry experience every moment of exquisite embarrassment, and only then would he throw the door open to stroll out looking even more perfect and smug than usual. Harry trudged down the hall, hoping he remembered correctly which door was Hermione's.   
  
Hesitating for a brief moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek, Harry held his clenched fist in front of the door that should lead to the DADA professor's chambers. He finally brought his knuckles against the wood in a quiet but insist rapping, like a frantic whisper made physical. There was no immediate response and before he dared trying to knock louder, he hissed, "Hermione! Wake up and open the bloody door!"   
  
Luckily for him, she did do the latter. The witch was already fully dressed and in fact already had a quill tucked behind her ear, nearly eclipsed by the mass of her hair. He could see past her shoulder to what should have been a coffee table of sorts but was so covered with books that it was hard to tell that it was there, if not for the spindly legs bowing under the weight. He was so aghast by the fact that she was already up and working at this ungodly hour that he momentarily forgot the strangeness of his own person to exclaim, "Good gods, Hermione--you're doing _research_? Now?"   
  
She was too busy staring to answer. Her shocked eyes wandered over the graffiti that still littered his torso, but were inevitably drawn downward to his rather revealing shorts. His bare legs, still muscled from his years of quidditch and covered with a sprinkling of long black hairs, began to fidget uncomfortably as her gaze remained fixed on his southern bits. "Er, Hermione...you're not making things easier here."   
  
Hermione replied faintly, "I wasn't aware that I was required to." She finally met Harry's eyes again, though it seemed physical strain was involved. "Do I even want to know why you are standing at my door at half-five in the morning, wearing nothing but... _short shorts_?"   
  
"I _am not_ \--" Harry shook his head in frustration and started again. "Look, Malfoy somehow locked me out of our room, with no wand or clothing. I would really appreciate it if you could get me back in to where there is cover and a blond waiting to be pummelled by me."   
  
Hermione gave him a look with an extra helping of disdain, but stepped out into the hall with him, pulling her own door shut behind her. She led him back down the hall and pulled her wand out of her robes. With a neat flick, she muttered, " _Alohomora_ _!_ " and there was an audible click as the door was unlocked with a spell any first year could use. One more patronising look in Harry's direction and she headed back down the hall to return to her books.   
  
An angry flush now burning across his face and down his throat, Harry threw the door open. He was so going to get Draco back for this. He stepped into the sitting room and then slammed the door shut behind him. "MALFOY!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "You are _dead_ , you despicable _Slytherin_ , you!" He stalked into the bedroom next, but he was still fuming at noone other than himself and the empty air of the rooms. A quick, furious look into the bathroom confirmed that the blond was long gone.   
  
Harry clenched his fists in futile anger. He spied his wand on one of the bedside tables and grabbed it in a grip so tight that it creaked ominously. He finally forced himself to relax slightly. Looking around the empty room, his eyes fell on the wardrobe. He imagined destroying every last piece of Draco's clothing--see how _he_ liked roaming the halls with nothing to wear!--but then he remembered that he needed the clothes, as well. Unless he wished to run outside of Hogwarts' wards, in nothing more than his shorts, so that he could apparate home for some clothing of his own. He settled on another plan and with a small dangerous smile, he started to choose an outfit for the day. 

  
  
  
The next day, Draco woke up to a chill breeze. "Fuck." Rolling his shoulders slightly to relieve a bit of their strain, he looked down at himself. It wasn't a bad view, of course--but he _had_ been tied to the bed by his wrists and ankles, leaving him spread-eagled and completely at the mercy of whomever might happen upon him. And naked. He had thought that Harry had taken his little prank yesterday a bit too well. As it turned out, he hadn't taken it all that well at all. It was looking, in fact, like he had been absolutely bloody furious about it.   
  
Draco struggled a bit against the cords that held him to the bed's frame and cursed his erstwhile roommate. "At least I let you keep your shorts on!" he yelled at noone, since there was noone actually there to hear him. He craned his head up as far as he could, to try to see into the sitting room through the open door, but there was no sign of Potter. Of course not. If he'd just wanted to humiliate Draco in private, he hardly would have needed such an elaborate set-up. No, Draco could imagine that Harry would stay out of sight until someone began to wonder where the history substitute was and came around to the history professor's rooms, looking for him.   
  
Draco sighed and jiggled his wrists again. There was no give in his bonds and he wasn't nearly fool enough to work himself bloody to get out of them. Wriggling into the soft mattress, trying to get as comfortable as he could, Draco settled in to wait. Eventually someone would come calling.   
  
And eventually they did. After a couple of hours of mentally reviewing his current position in life, Draco heard a brisk rapping at the door. He groaned silently. He knew exactly who it would be, behind the heavy oak. The door flew open, and then came to a purposeful stop before it could bang into the wall, and Headmistress McGonagall stepped into the sitting room, her wand still poised in front of her. Draco called out in a reluctant tone, "I'm in the bedroom, Professor McGonagall. Though I don't think you want to-..." His statement became redundant before he could even finish it, as McGonagall had already arrived at the bedroom door. Her face was immediately transformed into a thunderous frown of disapproval and she lashed out with her wand. A blanket materialised in the air above Draco and fell over him for the sake of decency.   
  
"Mr Malfoy," she said in a voice lined with more warning signs than a nuclear power plant, "suffice it to say that I am _not_ amused. Bearing this in mind, would you like to concisely and without embellishment explain to me what is going on here?"   
  
Draco considered his position. He considered what McGonagall had already seen of his position, which was just about everything. He explained succinctly, "I'm afraid that Potter and I let a little rivalry get out of hand. We won't let it trouble you again."   
  
Banishing the cords that bound him with a wave, McGonagall agree, "That's right, you won't. Or you will both be out of my school and at the mercy of the waiting paparazzi before you could say the words 'No comment.'" She turned to leave and told him over her shoulder, "Your class is waiting, Mr Malfoy."   
  
Draco wasn't stupid enough to ignore her tone and without even bothering to brush his hair or check a mirror--a first for him, or at least when he was sober--he stumbled into a pair of jeans and grabbed a dark sweater, the first thing his hands found. Shoving his feet into his shoes as he walked, he followed McGonagall out of the room, fighting his way into his top as he went. He had managed to get all his important bits covered by the time that they arrived at the history classroom and McGonagall motioned him in with a grave look. She stepped into the classroom after him and, facing the students, managed to bite out a few words. "Mr Malfoy is very sorry for the delay. He will not let it happen again. You will all stay an additional twenty minutes today, to make up for the lost time. Mr Potter will explain to your other teachers why their classes will be delayed." She turned slowly to give Harry, who had been sitting in his usual shadowy position, the single most unamused look of his life. "Isn't that right, Mr Potter?"   
  
Harry swallowed convulsively and stood up. "Right on it, Headmistress." He made a move toward the door and then paused to ask meekly, "And those would be which teachers?"   
  
The woman's icy expression didn't thaw in the least as she said, "Why don't you just go ahead and apologise to _all_ of the staff, for you and Mr Malfoy's recent conduct?"   
  
Harry visibly shrank. The intervening years were stripped from him and he was like a twelve year old again, threatened with being suspended from Hogwarts for crashing a flying car into a valuable Whomping Willow. He hurried out of the line of McGonagall's steely eyes and as soon as he was out of the classroom, broke into a run. He didn't want the Headmistress to catch up with him in the halls.   
  
When he thought he had put enough distance between himself and nearly certain death, he slowed to a walk. Breathing a heavy sigh, he let himself come to rest against a cold stone wall. He had to visit each professor in the castle and apologise to them, likely in front of a whole class of curious students. He might as well start with the easiest professor, he thought to himself. Then he immediately changed his mind--surely the easiest professor would be Marianthi. She would forgive him of anything. No matter how hard he tried to shrug her off, no matter how rude he acted, she kept coming back for more. He definitely didn't want to meet her. Especially if there was any chance he would get stuck alone with her again. Instead, he headed towards the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. Hermione was only slightly less frightening than McGonagall when angry, but he knew that as soon as he gave into one of her lectures, she would forgive him. Or at least he hoped that was still true.   
  
  
  
  
Lunch time found Harry and Draco sitting in uncomfortable silence in the deepest hidden chambers of the library. Harry was still smarting from making his rounds to all of the teachers and having to apologise for his behaviour in front of some 200 students. Draco, on the other hand, was already making plans for how to torment Harry without any possible ramifications. He would have to wait until dinner to really put them in action, though.   
  
He grinned wickedly as he flipped absently through the pages in front of him. So far, the reserves of Hogwarts' secrets had not proved any more fruitful than the rest of the library. They were going through each book individually, but there couldn't be more than five hundred of the ancient volumes. With the three of them (when Hermione came along) able to get through at least a dozen a day, they should exhaust all of Hogwarts' most coveted knowledge in little more than a month or two. Of course, Hermione slowed the process by actually _reading_ the books, instead of just skimming them as Harry did. Draco was somewhere in between the two of them; he would stop to read something that caught his fancy, but he would also get frustrated and flip through entire volumes while hardly noticing what they were even about. This was basically what he was doing now.   
  
Harry glared at him, his annoyance radiating from him in waves. Draco noticed and grinned at him, while in his mind he thought merrily, _Just_ _you wait till tonight._ Out loud he said, "Hey, Potter. I'm going to a show tonight. Want to come?"   
  
Harry started. This didn't fit with his silent tension. "A show?" he repeated dumbly.   
  
"Yes," Draco said with the patience of a saint, "a show. A band, playing music, in front of an audience of drunk, wanton young things. Entertainment, as it were."   
  
"Where?"   
  
"Edinburgh," Draco told him, flipping pages again.   
  
"Edinburgh?" Harry repeated in a disbelieving tone. "And just how were you planning to get to Edinburgh? The Hogwarts Express hardly calls in at the Royal Mile, last I checked!"   
  
Draco's teeth flashed again, in the low light of the cavern. "That's where you come in."   
  
Harry's eyes narrowed to suspicious green slits. "How do you even know about some show in Edinburgh?"   
  
Draco sighed, shaking his head with a mildly disappointed air, as if he had come to expect Harry's tiresome questions--which he had. "I knew about it before we even came here. I'd been planning to go for at least a month now. It's a new band that I quite like, so I wanted to go see their show."   
  
Harry wondered what kind of music Draco would like. He wanted to know. He nodded hesitantly and said, "All right. I'll apparate with you to Edinburgh."   
  
Draco's eyes glinted as his smile grew. "You'll come with me and stay for the show?" When Harry nodded again, he added, "You promise?"   
  
Harry was startled by the words. They should have been automatically suspicious, coming from Draco, but Harry thought he saw something in those inscrutable grey eyes, so he said, "I promise."   
  
Draco stuck out a hand and Harry grasped it, feeling the cool skin beneath his own. Draco gave a good shake and when Harry still didn't let go, he suggested, "I think that has settled it then...?"   
  
Harry's hand tightened convulsively as he realised what Draco had said, then he let go quickly. Muttering an apology, he turned back to the book in front of him, while Draco watched him curiously.   
  
  
  
  
They made it through afternoon classes--though it wasn't as if Harry did anything, so it would be more fair to say that Draco made it through his afternoon classes, and Harry continued to do nothing in the corner. Dinnertime rolled around and they headed for the Great Hall; Draco had assured Harry that they needn't leave until after dinner.   
  
They sat down at two conveniently empty seats between Hermione and Marianthi, and for once Draco didn't force Harry to sit next to the Greek witch and instead took that spot for himself. Harry felt a burst of relief, which immediately withered when he heard Draco say in a clear, carrying voice, "Do you like British music, Marianthi?"   
  
Harry dragged Draco's ear towards him via the somewhat circuitous route of a vicious pinch under the man's arm, and hissed, "What are you _doing_?"   
  
Draco swatted him away like an annoying mosquito and said under his breath, "You _promised._ "   
  
"Not if you're going to--"   
  
"You _promised_ ," Draco repeated in a no-nonsense tone. He let his gaze fall on the man for a moment. "Do you know what happens when a wizard breaks a promise?" Then he turned back to Marianthi without missing a beat and explained to her, "See, we're going to this Muggle band's show tonight and my friend Harry here is in sore need of date. Would you be so kind as to join us and keep him company?" His eyes flicked to Harry as he savoured the words. " _All_ evening?"   
  
All the nearby students fell silent, as they had of course heard Draco's purposefully loud voice. Marianthi could hardly agree fast enough and Harry shook his head in disgusted resignation. He should have known. There was only one thing he could do to try help his situation, as the gossip starting spreading through the ranks of the students. He turned to Hermione with a desperate expression. "Hermione...please..."   
  
She rolled her eyes at his pathetic display but spat, "Oh, fine. I'll play chaperone. You pathetic pansy."   
  
Draco perked up. "What's that about Pansy?"   
  
Hermione growled, "Oh, I'm not talking to you, you meddling ferret." She turned back to Harry. "Why do I always get dragged into your messes and end up cleaning them up after you?"   
  
Harry smiled in what he hoped was an endearing manner. "Because you're my bestest best friend?" He saw that wasn't going to cut it and so he quickly tacked on, "And much cleverer and prettier and better at everything than me?"   
  
Hermione at least broke into a laugh as she questioned, "Prettier?"   
  
"Well..." Harry's smile grew into a grin. But he glanced in the direction of Draco and Marianthi, now discussing the details of the night's plans, and it faded into a worried look. His eyes lingered on Draco as the man happily set up a night of delicious payback.   
  
  
  
  
At least Marianthi could apparate for herself, otherwise Harry was sure that Draco would have found a way to make him take her along. Instead, it was Draco himself that Harry pulled close to him, one hand clamped firmly on his bony shoulder, as they apparated to a dark wynd in the heart of Edinburgh. The four young travellers spent a few moments adjusting their Muggle clothes and pulling their jackets in tighter against the chill air, then they set out with Draco leading the way.   
  
Hermione asked him, through clenched teeth as she tried to keep them from chattering, "So who is this band?"   
  
"They're called Snow Patrol," Draco answered, glancing at her for any sign of recognition.   
  
She shrugged and said, "Never heard of them. But then I'm not terribly up on my Muggle pop culture these days."   
  
"Well," Draco allowed, "they are pretty new, so it's not such a surprise that you mightn't have heard their name."   
  
Marianthi dropped into the conversation from behind them. She was trying to keep up with (and close to) Harry, but he hadn't even noticed and was striding with long steps, several feet away from the group. "What does this mean...'Snow Patrol'?" she asked, sounding slightly out of breath.   
  
Draco pulled a face. "Er, apparently something to do with skiing, I think..."   
  
No one else could agree or deny it, since none of them had ever tried the Muggle sport. They arrived at an unmarked blue door in yet another empty-looking building and Draco stopped. "Welcome," he said, "to the Blue Door." Standing in the cold, their breath clouding in front of their faces, his audience looked unimpressed. He pushed the door open and a rush of warm and alcohol-scented air wafted out to greet them, along with the sound of conversation and muted music.   
  
They bustled into the warmer inside and Draco led them down the steep stairs immediately inside the door, into the basement. It was surprisingly large and already more-than-comfortably full with at least two hundred people spread across the bar, tables and dance floor. Marianthi was looking around curiously at what she could see in the strobing blue light. Harry followed Draco's lead stiffly, clearly out of his element. And Hermione, surprisingly, headed straight for the bar, without even waiting for the others.   
  
After checking their coats, the threesome managed to find a tall spindly table unoccupied, though there were no seats. The table was made to lean on, look cool, and inspire intimate moments. Harry was expressing his strong opinion on the usefulness of such a piece of furniture when Hermione arrived with four shot glasses clasped between her slender fingers, usually seen wrapped around a book cover. "Stop your whining," she told Harry as she slid one pair of shots in front of him and Draco. "First round's on me."   
  
Harry and Draco looked at her in surprise. Marianthi hadn't known the witch long enough to be as shocked and she clapped happily. "Oh, good job, Hermione!" She took the glass that Hermione offered her and raised it as if to toast the night.   
  
Draco said sardonically, "To new...relationships." He looked at Harry meaningfully, a suggestive smile curling across his face. He was rewarded with seeing Harry's fingers tighten around his glass.   
  
Hermione, watching the others closely, raised her glass to that and then they all knocked back the shots of vodka that she had bought. Well, the other three knocked back the vodka. She drank the perfectly innocuous ice water that she'd had the bartender pour her. It--and the loss of an extra twenty pounds--were part of the agreement that would get her friends plastered and keep her tee-totalling for the rest of the evening. She offered to pick up another round on her way back from the coat check.   
  
After she left, Draco watched her from across the room with raised eyebrows. "Well, well, Professor Granger," he murmured, half to himself. He said to Harry, without turning around, "I'm beginning to reconsider my opinion of your choice of friends, Potter."   
  
Hermione came back with their second round just as the recorded music was switched off and the sound of the band tuning up filled the crowded club. A cheer went up from the patrons who had come just for this. Draco jumped to his feet and grabbed both Harry and Marianthi by the arm and dragged them toward the dance floor. "Let's go!" he yelled over the noise, in the highest of spirits. He saw Harry's miserable-looking face and laughed out loud. "This is going to the night of your life, Potter. Believe you me. And Granger, your skinny arse better be coming, too," he shouted over his shoulder.   
  
She shouted back something indistinct, her words lost in the crowds' roar, but she followed as Draco managed to wedge them all into the centre of the warm, sweaty crowd.   
  
The first song started and the crowd went nuts. Draco had managed to manoeuvre Marianthi right in front of Harry and the witch was doing her best to make herself impossible to ignore, namely by practically mauling her poor young target. Draco danced behind them with a huge smile on his face. Whenever Harry looked desperately in his direction, it seemed to grow even larger. Not to mention the fact that Harry was an absolutely crap dancer and was doing little more than stepping from side to side in a rhythm as close to the music's beat as he could get. Occasionally he would try to involve his arms in some way, but then give up.   
  
Draco sidled up behind the obviously uncomfortable man and whispered in his ear, their skin touching briefly before Harry stopped his pathetic movement, "Having fun?"   
  
Harry let himself relax slightly against the blond. His body almost imperceptibly resting against Draco's steady frame, he spoke back directly into Draco's ear, since that was the only way--short of magic--to speak over the noise without screaming. "This is payback, isn't it?" he asked resignedly.   
  
Draco chuckled and Harry fancied that he could feel it through his back. "It is," Draco agreed, "but hardly the worst of paybacks, wouldn't you say?"   
  
Harry was about to agree but then Marianthi grabbed his hand and tried to force him to shake his body in time with hers. They continued like this--Harry and Marianthi silently struggling towards and away from each other, Draco dancing and laughing, and Hermione watching from a discreet distance. She didn't even have to suggest a third round before Draco yelled out that he was getting rather parched. Hermione called back, "Give me ten pounds and I'll meet you back at the tables!"   
  
Draco pulled a wad of notes from his pocket and passed her a twenty, saying, "Make 'em doubles!"   
  
"Buyer's choice?"   
  
"Scotch, then!"   
  
Hermione grinned, though probably not for the same reasons that Draco thought she was grinning for. She ordered three double shots of scotch and one double "shot" of an apple juice that could pass for whiskey in the low lighting. She brought them back to the group, who were taking a break at another of the uncomfortable tables, and carefully handing out the drinks to the others.   
  
Harry looked unhappily at his. He remembered (some of) what had happened the last time Draco had got him to drink scotch with him. But he choked down the drink anyway, fighting the slight urge to gag. The room was already feeling a bit shaky, but it began to positively spin as the last drink began to take effect. He was aware of Draco forcing him out onto the dance floor and then Marianthi's arms were caught up around his neck as the slow strains of a new song filled the haze in his brain.   
  
_Please don't let this turn into something it's not_   
  
Draco was walking away, back to the table where Hermione was still standing. Harry watched him go blearily.   
  
_I can only give you everything I've got_   
  
He looked down at Marianthi. She had her arms around him, but his own arms hung limply at his sides. This wasn't going to work.   
  
_I can't be as sorry as you think I should_   
  
In his drunken calm, he gently untangled her arms from around his neck and pushed them back towards her. Then he walked away.   
  
_But I still love you more than anyone else could_   
  
His eyes never leaving the blond hair that appeared between the shadows of the other dancers, Harry walked unsteadily towards Draco.   
  
_All that I keep thinking throughout this whole fight_   
  
He didn't have any clear idea what he was planning to do when he arrived, but he did know one thing.   
  
_Is it could take my whole damn life to make this right_   
  
Wrapped tightly in Marianthi's embrace, he didn't feel anything but troubled. But simply being able to stand near Draco made him feel like he knew exactly where he belonged.   
  
_This splintered mast I'm holding on won't save me long_   
  
He arrived at the table between Hermione and Draco, grabbing the wooden top to keep himself standing straight. They looked at him in surprise.   
  
_Because I know fine well that what I did was wrong_   
  
He grabbed Draco by the arm, and feeling those sinewy muscles under his hand gave him the same thrill that he'd been feeling for days, though he only admitted it to himself now.   
  
_The last girl and the last reason to make this last for as long as I could_   
  
He pulled the man away from the table and Hermione's shocked eyes. Draco tried to pull away, his face a mixture of curiosity and burgeoning anger. He asked sharply, "What was that for?"   
  
_The first kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything_   
  
Harry didn't immediately answer, as he found himself staring at Draco's face instead of listening to his words. How could he have known that face for more than a decade and never noticed?   
  
_The weight of water, the way you taught me to look past everything I have ever learned_   
  
He finally remembered to answer, and his words were slurred by the alcohol that was propelling him forward. "It needs to stop."   
  
_The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love_   
  
Draco's lips were curled in scorn, but Harry was looking at his cloudy grey eyes, now widened in the slightest sign of alarm. "What does? What on earth are you talking about, Potter?"   
  
_We have gone through so much worse than this before_   
  
Harry's eyes dropped to his hand, still on the other man's arm. "This isn't what I _want_ ," he mumbled miserably. "You've got to stop. This--this _thing_...with Marianthi... It's just _wrong_. I don't want it!"   
  
_What's so different this time that you can't ignore_   
  
Draco's eyes narrowed as he asked, "Then what do you want? Do you even know? Before I showed up, you were rotting away in the countryside with no plans for the rest of your life, so _you tell me_ what it is that you want."   
  
_You say it is much more than just my last mistake_   
  
"I..." Harry struggled feebly for words, his fingers tightening convulsively on the thin arm in his grasp. "I--I want..."   
  
_And we should spend some time apart for both our sakes_   
  
Draco ripped his arm free of that grasp and asked mercilessly, " _What do you want_ , Harry? Answer the goddamned question!"   
  
_The last girl and the last reason to make this last for as long as I could_   
  
Harry's eyes shot up to look into Draco's face and he stared openly at that fierce expression, unsure what it meant. "I..."   
  
_The first kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything_   
  
The rest of the room didn't exist and the two men didn't look away from each other's eyes. Draco's voice was barely a whisper but it cut across all of the noise of the club for Harry. " _Tell me._ "   
  
_The weight of water, the way you taught me to look past everything I have ever learned_   
  
Harry blinked and the spell broke. He felt the bodies jostling around him and his liquid courage evaporated. He mumbled blearily, "I don't know."   
  
_The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love_   
  
It was Draco's turn to reach out and he grabbed Harry by the arm as the other man seemed about to turn away.   
  
_The last girl and the last reason to make this last for as long as I could_   
  
"I wasn't just saying it, Potter." He told Harry as he looked seriously into his face, "You remember the rules. You _have_ to answer."   
  
_The first kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything_   
  
Harry's eyes flew wide open. He hadn't thought of the game since they'd come to Hogwarts, but it seemed that Draco hadn't forgot his remaining questions.   
  
_The weight of water, the way you taught me to look past everything I have ever learned_   
  
He had no choice. This was what he had agreed to. It made the words somehow easier, when he could tell himself that he had no choice but to say them.   
  
_The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love_   
  
He pulled Draco's hand from his sleeve, holding it for that brief moment as he said simply, "I want you." Then he dropped the limp fingers and turned on the spot, pulling his wand from his pocket as he did so. He apparated out of the crowded room, but no one really noticed in the crush of bodies.   
  
_And I don't know where to look_   
  
No one but Draco, of course. He clenched his empty hand into a fist as he stared at the spot where Harry had disappeared, knowing that he couldn't follow.   
  
_My words just break and melt_   
  
Speechless with frustrated anger--and perhaps something else--he shoved his way through the crowd to where Hermione was still standing by the table full of empty glasses.   
  
_Please just save me from this darkness_   
  
"Take me to Godric's Hollow, Granger."   
  
Hermione hadn't seen Harry disappear and she asked, "What the hell is going on?"   
  
_Please just save me from this darkness_   
  
He silenced her with a loaded glare and repeated, "Take me to Godric's Hollow."   
  
_And I don't know where to look_  
  
Harry apparated into his own living room and collapsed to the floor, falling half against the wall. He looked around his own house as if it were unfamiliar to him. He hadn't been back here since the last time Draco had dropped him off.   
  
_My words just break and melt_   
  
What had he _done_? Had he really just said out loud that he wanted Draco Malfoy, his arch rival and best friend? He felt like he was going to be sick.   
  
_Please just save me from this darkness_   
  
He didn't want to imagine facing Draco again after what he'd said, but he couldn't imagine never meeting Draco again. How could he live now, without Draco blazing through his life like a brilliant, destructive supernova?   
  
_Please just save me from this darkness_   
  
"Harry."


	19. In Which There Is Snogging

**Chapter Nineteen**

_In Which There is Snogging_

 

"Harry."

He dragged his eyes up from where they had been fixated on the floor. Almost unwillingly, he looked towards the kitchen, where that most unwelcome of voices had come from. He should have wondered why the lights were on in a house where he no longer lived. He stared at the witch and when he spoke next, his voice was flat. "What the hell are you doing in my house, Ginevra?"

He felt a small, cruel pleasure when she winced after hearing her full name. He had never used it before, but calling her 'Ginny' now seemed far too familiar when she was hanging about his house, uninvited, like some sort of stalker. He didn't even wait for her excuses. He just let his head fall back against the wall, his eyes sliding shut, as he said in an unapproachable tone, "Just leave. Just get away from me."

He sighed in relief when the next sound he heard was the pop of her disapparating. Alone again, and free to wallow in his misery. Or so he thought, but it seemed only moments later that he heard his front door rattle as someone--someone familiarly cursing a blue streak--tried to get in. Harry held his breath, but the rattling stopped. For once, Harry was not at all sorry that Draco had lost his magic, or there would have been no stopping him. As it turned out, there was still no stopping him: he hadn't lost a shred of his reckless determination.

Something came flying through the large plate glass window to Harry's right, sending shards of glass and clumps of dirt--because, as Harry realised, the missile was one of his potted geranium plants--into the living room. Draco soon followed, clambering through the window frame and knocking out any remaining pieces of glass, in case they might catch him.

Harry stared at him with burgeoning disbelief. "You just--my win--but--!"

Draco shrugged and said dismissively, "What, like you can't fix it all with a quick reparo."

Well, yes, that was quite so, but... "Dammit, it's the principle of the thing!" In his drunken state, even Harry wasn't sure what he meant, as he sat on the floor and ranted madly at the man who he'd just pronounced, well, feelings for less than fifteen minutes ago.

Apparently Draco hadn't forgotten, because he brushed off the dirt from his hands, stamped over and dropped heavily onto Harry's legs, pinning the man where he was against the wall. "Now then, Potter," he breathed the words onto Harry's face from only inches away. "You can't run away. Let's talk, shall we."

Harry's attempt at a cutting retort came out as something like, "Meep." Draco was sitting on top of him. He could feel the warmth of the blond on his legs; the bony fingers, still cold from the night, that were wrapped around his upper arms. Here in the room where he had first seen Draco naked, glistening with a sheen of bathwater, as the small droplets had run down his--

Harry shook his head furiously. If he kept going down that path, he was going to embarrass himself even more than he already had. He tried to think of cricket, of cold showers, of boring history of magic lectures--but then he looked up into the crystalline grey eyes of the newest history tutor and he was lost again.

Draco watched the play of emotions on Harry's face with some interest, but he still wanted answers to his questions. He shook the man slightly. "You said," he spoke slowly and clearly, "that you wanted me. Is that right?"

Harry nodded mutely. It turned out that Draco didn't need real magic or even special questions; if it would keep that face close to his for even a moment more, Harry felt like he might answer anything.

Sitting easily on his prey, his weight all on Harry's thighs, Draco asked blandly, "And what does that mean? Exactly?"

Harry waffled wordlessly and Draco continued to press him. "Are we talking about a platonic 'I want you to be my BFF?' Or a sexual, sort of 'I want to see you naked and do naughty things to you?'" There was a wicked glint in his eye as he corrected himself and suggested, "'With you?'"

Harry continued to whimper and he finally managed to whisper, barely louder than a breath, "The latter."

With a sigh that almost drowned out that small voice, Draco said, "Well, thank God." Then he kissed Harry. At least, that is the conventional way of describing what happened next. If Harry had to describe it--well, Harry was never known for his way with words. He did, however, remember a science experiment that he'd done when he was a student in Surrey. They'd had to make circuits out of batteries, wires, and little light bulbs. While Dudley and his cronies had still been trying to figure out a way to electrocute Harry with their 9-volt batteries, Harry had managed to set up his circuit according to the diagram that the teacher had drawn for them. He'd connected the last wire and the light bulb had burst into life, its tiny wire glowing with an incandescence like a tiny star in his hand. Draco's lips touching his felt something like that.

For a long moment, Harry couldn't react. He felt Draco begin to pull away and then his arms came up of their own volition, wrapping around Draco's narrow back and holding the blond where he was. Then Harry started to kiss back.

This was more like it. Draco loosened his grip on Harry's arms to snake one hand up to dig in that wild black hair. He knew without looking that his white fingers would have disappeared into the darkness of Harry's hair; he let his fingers press into the base of Harry's skull, making him moan into the kiss. His fingers worked knowingly at the tense muscles there and he was rewarded by Harry melting into his touch, before trailing warm kisses along his jaw bone. Even Draco couldn't help a sharp intake of breath as Harry's lips found the sensitive skin along his throat.

" _Jesus_ ," he cursed, in his adopted Muggle manner.

Harry pulled Draco even tighter against him, if such a thing were possible. His hands roamed restlessly across Draco's back; he didn't feel close enough, not even when pressed against the man so tightly it verged on pain where their bony bits collided. Fingers knotting in the cloth of Draco's jacket, Harry strained up against the blond, their lips and tongues locked in a fight for control and their hearts racing as the cool night air wafted over them from the broken window.

 

 

Outside the small house, Hermione thought she had almost figured it out. Of course, she couldn't see the small house. All she could see was another patch of dark Somerset overgrowth, as surrounded her from both sides of the little lane. But she had seen Draco rush into the wilderness and disappear to the sound of breaking glass and, if only for a moment, she thought she had seen a stone cottage surrounded by wild gardens and lit with a warm electric light from its front room.

If it were some kind of Fidelius charm that Gin--that _whoever_ , she quickly corrected herself--had used then it couldn't have been perfectly completed. After all, Harry had to be able to find his way into his own house. As the Secret Keeper, he would have that right, but he hadn't known anything about the spell and with the Fidelius charm, the Secret Keeper had to be active in the casting. Besides that, it appeared that Harry still got his post and paid his T.V. licence, so somehow Muggles were able to bypass the spell.

Her mind bubbling with half-formed ideas, Hermione twirled her wand in her fingers and tried charm after charm as they occurred to her.

" _Revelum. Ponere. Pateo publicus_?"

She knew that Harry's home was directly in front of her. She just had to convince whatever spell was cloaking it that she had as much right as Draco or the postman to see it.

" _Expositus._ _Patesco._ "

She thought she saw something waver in the dark shadows before her and she flicked her wand in their direction again.

" _Patesco. Patesco dissimulo sua; patesco specialis mea. Patesco!"_

Suddenly the house popped sheepishly into existence, its windows twinkling with warm light and, in places, with shards of broken glass.

Unable to help a brief shout of "Harry!" she ran towards the house. Not bothering with crawling through broken glass, she waved her wand as she ran and cried, " _Alohomora!_ " She burst through the front door. Looking around wildly, she rushed into the sitting room and the two men there sprung apart, staring at her with shocked eyes. They were flushed and flustered: their hair was mussed and their lips looked bruised and swollen. Hermione jumped to the only possible conclusion she seemed able to, and wailed, "Can't you two be alone for two minutes without resorting to violence?!"

Draco blinked, then managed to quip, "But it's been so long since we've had a spot of good violence. Men can get very _frustrated_ when they haven't had...violence."

Hermione ignored his innuendo and barrelled on. "Whatever Harry said to you at the club couldn't justify following him to his home and then trying to pound him into the ground." Draco was awkwardly raising himself off the man in question, while Harry himself quickly pulled his knees up to his chest in a childish manner. Hermione added grudgingly, "Though I am glad to have sorted out the charm on Harry's house..."

Draco moved to stand up, glanced down, then desisted. He grabbed a pillow that had fallen near the couch and held it in his lap, kneading it tensely. Harry snorted when he noticed this move and Draco looked at the other man's clasped knees pointedly, effectively silencing the wanker, before replying to Hermione, "No, I find that I _performed_ exactly as the situation warranted. You needn't worry about me 'pounding' him into the ground, either." His look at Harry suggested that there would definitely be pounding, but somewhere a bit more soft and bouncy than the ground.

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly and said, "Really, Hermione. We're fine. Why don't you wait in the hall and we'll just...make ourselves presentable."

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but did as Harry asked. From behind the single wall that separated the sitting room from the hall, she muttered unconvincingly, "Poor Marianthi must be worried sick. We left without saying a word..."

Draco had thrown aside his pillow and stood up. As he made some minor adjustments in his jeans, he called back cheerfully, "That's right. You should really go back and check on her." He glanced at Harry, one hand still tucked in the front of his trousers. "Potter can take care of me."

Harry glared at Draco in his usual humourless way, but then his expression melted into an awkward but suggestive smile. Draco couldn't help himself; he held out a hand to pull the bewitching, bumbling man to his feet. As soon as Harry was up, Draco's other hand snaked around his back and pulled them together at the hips. Harry's faint smile grew more confident and he leaned into Draco's hold, his lips just millimetres from Draco. They were almost exactly the same height when standing. Everything fit perfectly.

"I'm not leaving the two of you alone until I know you won't hex or poison one another," drifted Hermione's voice from the hall.

A slight flex of Draco's fingers, a small pressure at the small of Harry's back, and then they were kissing again. One of Harry's hands was still caught in Draco's grip; his other arm was pinned to his side by the arm that Draco had wrapped around his waist. The kiss was almost tortuously slow, as they tried to reach each other as deep into each other as they could. With a nearly silent whimper, Harry tried to get closer to Draco the only way that he could without his hands free: he ground his body against the slender man, feeling the wonderful pressure of Draco's body trapped between himself and the couch behind them. He dimly heard Hermione's voice in the hall, but he didn't care, as he pushed himself more urgently against Draco's warm body.

Suddenly, it wasn't just his head that was dizzy from that kiss and he realised belatedly that they were falling. His weight had forced Draco to topple over and now they fell together over the arm of the couch. Harry landed briefly on top of the blond, knocking the breath out of him, and then they both tumbled off the couch, crashing into the coffee table and landing in a sprawl on the ground with a series of pained grunts.

Hearing the ruckus, Hermione rushed back around the corner and into the room. "What on--" she started and then broke off by snapping her mouth shut and grabbing her wand from her jacket pocket. " _Eadraig,"_ she snapped. Draco felt himself inextricably propelled away from Harry and, most oddly, found himself hovering a couple of inches above the man on the ground.

"Oh, Hermione, not the bloody Separator! Come now, this is ridiculous." This came from Harry.

Forcing himself up off the air bubble that seemed to exist between them, Draco said sourly, "And what might that be when it's at home?"

Harry got up as well and explained, "It's a charm Mrs Weasley used to use on the twins, or whoever was causing trouble that day. It makes the castees unable to touch one another, which effectively makes it impossible to fight."

"Or do anything else interesting," Draco surmised, then turned to Hermione. "Honestly, Granger. We are grown men. I don't see how it's any of your business--"

"Grown men?" She snorted. "Who act like little third years, getting into fistfights every five minutes?" She tucked her wand in her jacket. "When you stop acting like children, I'll stop treating you like children."

Draco experimentally tried to jab Harry with a finger, but it was rebounded several inches from the scowling wizard. What a curious spell. He was quite disappointed that he'd never heard of it. He could have had all sorts of fun with it as a student, back when he'd had power.

He glanced at Harry, catching the man's green eyes, then looking pointedly to where he knew the wizard kept his wand. Harry gave him a quelling look, but nodded slightly; of course he could remove the spell with a simple _finite incantatem--_ just because Hermione was trying to treat them like children didn't mean they were. But for now, they played along and trooped out of the house behind her, flicking off the lights as they went. Harry relocked his front door and they stood on the front lawn, their breath misting in the cold night air. Harry absently muttered a repair spell in the direction of his front window and the glass appeared to refill in the dark.

"Now, then," Hermione said as she rubbed her hands together for warmth, "we should head back to the club to collect Marianthi. Obviously, I'll take Malfoy with me. Harry, I expect you'll follow us presently."

She grabbed Draco's arm, having no trouble at all touching him, and pulled out her wand yet again. Draco said pointedly, "I'm beginning to dread seeing you with that meddlesome stick of yours." She gave him a unfriendly smile and then apparated the two of them away. Harry hesitated only a couple of moments before he followed.

 

 

 

Back at the club, Marianthi had been (probably rightfully so) going a bit spare. She'd gone around the entire club three times, checked the ladies' lavatories, and even asked some Scotsman to check the gentlemen's for her. When the others finally reappeared, she immediately attached herself to Harry's side with a relentless grip.

"We really are terribly sorry," Hermione apologised for what felt like the dozenth time.

Draco was watching the Greek witch with dispassionate eyes and drawled, "Yes, _terribly._ " Harry and Hermione both looked at him. It'd been a while since they'd heard a good drawl. He waved a hand at the now-empty stage and said, "Well, my band has gone and I'm feeling pretty, er, knackered from all this excitement. I'm ready to call it a night."

Harry nodded earnestly and Hermione agreed, "Yes, that's probably for the best." Those who hadn't already collected their coats did so, and Harry managed to shake off Marianthi when she reluctantly let go of him in order to slip into her own coat. They apparated away from the hall outside the lavs and landed in Hogsmeade amid a light flurry of unseasonable snowflakes. "Snow," Draco said disbelievingly, then again, "Snow? It's hardly October!" Next he stuck one of his cold hands up the back of Harry's shirt and made him yelp shrilly, disturbing the quiet night and alerting Hermione to the fact that Harry had removed her spell--though, really, the whole apparating together should have been a little clue.

What the pair of witches didn't see, as they walked on ahead of the men, was that Draco's hand stayed under Harry's shirt, rubbing small, cold circles against the warm flesh there. Harry wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he was quite sure he didn't give a damn as long as it didn't stop.

They trudged back up to the castle in very different groupings than when they had left it. They passed through the large front doors and headed straight to the staff quarters in awkward silence. At least, Hermione thought it was an awkward silence, but had no idea what to say to Marianthi, who was walking beside her. Marianthi was debating whether she could ask Harry to her rooms for a nightcap--and some other night activities. Harry was growing more and more agitated, as he and Draco approached the privacy of their rooms. And Draco wasn't particularly thinking anything, just enjoying how his hand felt on Harry's hot skin, where no one else could see it.

They came to the history rooms first and Draco used his hand on Harry's back to propel him forward, while saying, "Well, this is our stop."

Marianthi asked with a determined air, "Harry, would you like to come by my rooms for a-- "

"Oh, uh," Harry interjected before she could even finish, "I'm just so tired. Really. Sorry." He was careful not to say anything like, "Some other time?" He knew she wouldn't forget it if he did.

She looked like she wanted to say more, but Draco reached around Harry to open the door and then shoved the man in ahead of him. "Goodnight," was all he said before he slammed the door shut after them. Hermione and Marianthi stared at it for a moment, then continued walking towards their own rooms, carefully avoiding each other's eyes.

On the other side of the door, Harry had Draco pinned against its carved wood; the ornamental designs dug into the blond's back, while Harry pressed himself against his front.

Harry murmured into Draco's clingy hair, as he nibbled at his ear, "I suppose we should talk."

"There are a lot of things we should do in this world," Draco replied, his fingers digging into Harry's back, "but I can pretty much guarantee that none of them will be as much fun as this."

Harry couldn't argue with that. He wrapped his arms tightly around Draco's waist, one hand drifting down to knead in the suddenly irresistible muscle of that arse. He'd never been this forward before, but then he'd never snogged another guy before. Or wanted to.

Draco groaned and ran his hands under Harry's jacket, trying to pull it off but not wanting to stop Harry touching him for even a moment. He burrowed his hands into Harry's sweater and undershirt, finally reaching the hot dry skin below them. Running his hands along that skin, he was rudely interrupted when the door behind him bucked, knocking him in the head and resulting in a muffled curse.

"What the--" Hermione's puzzled voice came from behind the door that she'd just attempted to burst through, and the two men disentangled themselves and stepped away to allow her in. "What were you doing, standing behind the door?" she asked, before waving her own question away. "Never mind. Harry, I think you should come immediately. It's Ginny."

Harry tugged at his clothes. "Did something happen to her?"

Draco piped up, "Yeah, something involving a blunt object and appropriate force, I hope?"

"No--well, she..." Hermione was wringing her hands. Harry hadn't seen the gesture in years. "She's here and I think you should hear what she is saying."

Sighing, Harry looked wistfully at Draco, whose white blond hair was falling in his eyes and nearly obscuring the grey stare that was directed at him with undisguised hunger. He realised belatedly that he seemed to have sobered up. Hating himself for having to say it, he spat, "All right, let's go take care of this mess once and for all."


	20. In Which Biscuits Are Consumed

**Chapter Twenty**

_In Which Biscuits Are Consumed_

 

"I told her," Hermione explained in a hushed voice as they hurried down the hall, "that I would just go get some tea and biscuits from the kitchens. If I'm gone too long, I'm afraid she might make a run for it. She's acting awfully..." She seemed to search for words for a moment, then gave up and simply said, "Well, you'll see."

Harry didn't say anything; he was carefully trying not to jostle the teapot full of scalding-hot liquid that was balanced on the tea tray in his hands. Draco was brandishing a roll of McVittie's like a club, waving them about in angry frustration. "She won't be running anywhere," he growled. He was getting more than tired of the interruptions that kept popping up between him and the newly fascinating distraction of Harry's body.

Hermione looked at him knowingly and he paused in his brandishing of the biscuits. She'd done that before, he recalled. But then she hurried ahead and opened the door to her rooms. They followed close behind her and as soon as the two men appeared, a wild-looking Ginny shot up from her seat on Hermione's chaise.

"Wha--wha--" she stuttered for a minute, her darting eyes alighting briefly on the men before flying back to Hermione. "You brought _Harry_ _?_ "

The man in question winced at the intimate way that she breathed his name. Draco muttered, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, "You'll probably want to not leave a clear path to the door."

Hermione had to agree, though she managed to not do so aloud, and she relieved Harry of the tea set without a word. She carried the tray over to the low coffee table and set it down with the light tinkling of porcelain cups and saucers, then took a seat opposite to Ginny. Draco took a seat on a bench along the wall, just next to the door, and pulled his knees up to his chest; he was still clutching the biscuits protectively. Harry settled into what seemed to be his place as default door-guard with a sigh.

Hermione poured out cups of tea, placing one in front of Ginny and sending two floating gently to the men. Finally she took her own cup, feeling the heat soak through the thin porcelain, and sighed happily. She took her first sip and couldn't help murmuring a soft, "Lovely." No matter how you did it, a cup of conjured tea never managed to taste as good as the real thing--in her mind, at least.

Draco tore open the plastic wrapping on his biscuits. He first stuck two in his mouth, then held the roll out to Harry. The man took one with a tolerating look. Draco took one more chocolate-covered biscuit from the package and tossed the sweet across the room in Hermione's direction, calling out belatedly, "Oi, Granger."

She had already flicked her wand, though, and the biscuit smoothly came to land on her saucer. Draco held the package to his chest and twisted the plastic wrapper impatiently, chewing on his biscuits. He looked challengingly at the red-haired woman who was, admittedly, staring at him in open-mouthed shock. She was still on her feet and obviously wanted to disapparate in that instant--if the white-knuckled grip on her wand were any clue--but thanks to Hogwarts' wards, she dropped, discouraged, back onto the chaise.

Harry said out of the corner of his mouth, "You do realise that you're acting like a three-year-old malcontent, right?"

"You're damned right I am," Draco said, angrily eating another biscuit. Then he winked at Harry, as if he could hear the second part of the man's thought: that he found it inexplicably and frustratingly bewitching. Draco hated the meddling witch who had mucked with his life; it was protective and sort of...adorable. Harry wanted to jump the blond then and there.

Across the room, Hermione cleared her throat loudly. Perhaps she'd noticed the rising tensions in the corner; at any rate, she addressed Ginny for the first time since their rather dramatic entrance. She felt infinitely more in control of the situation now that she had a hot cup of tea in her hand.

"Now, Ginny, I think it's time we all had an honest talk." As she spoke to her friend, her voice was not unkind, but there was a hint of steel underlying it. Ginny nodded without a word, chewing her lower lip nervously. Her eyes darted to the corner where Harry and Draco waited, but she dragged them back to her lap before they made contact.

"I think," Hermione said thoughtfully, "you should start by explaining why you acted like you were helping me look for Harry all these years, when you actually knew exactly where he was." For the first time, it was apparent--from that measured, careful voice--that Hermione was actually furious about this blatant betrayal of her trust.

"I--I..." Ginny bit her lip again. She'd really painted herself into a corner now. "It wasn't just an act! I didn't know at first... I found him about six months after we started looking, when he first bought the place in Godric's Hollow." She talked as if Harry weren't standing right there in the room. "I didn't know where he was before then."

"And why," Hermione asked icily, "did you not tell me then?"

Ginny floundered wordlessly for several moments, then managed to say in a small voice, "I was trying to--to protect him."

Harry snorted derisively, but still didn't enter the conversation. He took the biscuit that Draco offered him and nibbled at it absently. He noticed that the roll was already half gone. How many of the things had Draco eaten?

Ginny didn't acknowledge Harry's interruption, but continued trying to make her excuses. "He was so broken--he wasn't ready to meet anyone. He was miserable. How could he not be? He had got you obliviated--"

"Which had already been fixed!" Hermione hissed angrily. "Why didn't you tell him that and relieve his suffering?!"

Ginny seemed taken aback. "Well--but--then there was Ron, too. He couldn't just get over letting his best friend get Kissed!"

No, Harry thought, he couldn't _just_ get over it. And it had taken years to begin to let it slip into the past, but it had. His present was full and it had pushed his past emotional baggage away, back into some dark corner of his mind. He had escaped from the homey prison Ginny and he himself had made. He listened as the woman he'd once thought he loved continued desperately.

"He couldn't just _be fine_ after what he did. Our family will never be _fine_ again."

Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly. "Was this some sort of _punishment_ , Ginny?"

"No, no, nothing like--" Ginny was practically hysterical. She looked up into the angry face of her best friend and spoke almost pleadingly. "Don't you _understand_? I was keeping him _safe_. He was _safe_ with _me_. I--I always loved him. I was the only one who could take care of him! I couldn't let him out there without me; I couldn't let him face the world alone. Look what's happened now! The _Prophet_ dragging up old scandals and making up new trash, like that story that he's having an affair with some Divination professor!"

This time it was Hermione who snorted. Draco mumbled around a mouthful of biscuits, "She only wishes."

Hermione tapped her teacup with her wand, warming it slightly, as she explained, "Well, you don't need to worry about the truth of that rumour, at least." She nodded in Harry's direction, and Draco looked up at the man next to him. "You two are together, aren't you?"

"What!" Harry exclaimed, speaking up for the first time. "No, we're not!"

Hermione shook her head dismissively, guessing at his assumption. "No, no, not you and Marianthi. You and Malfoy."

"What!" Harry's voice seemed to jump another octave. "No, we're--oh, well, yes, I suppose we are." Draco grinned up at him, his cheeks bulging with biscuits and Harry half wanted to punch that ridiculous smile off his face--but his other half wanted to wipe that stupid smirk off his face through much more enjoyable methods. Harry noted that the package of biscuits was now completely empty. He glanced back at Hermione. "But I thought you--I mean, you acted like..."

Hermione grimaced. "You think I wanted to admit that I'd walked in on the two of you snogging and talk about what that meant? I thought I would wait for you to come to me when you were ready to talk about it." She turned back to Ginny, who looked like she was on the verge of passing out. "But I thought it was relevant to this conversation. So, you see, Ginny, Harry's been doing just fine without needing you to take care of him."

Draco swallowed the last of his cookies and interrupted gloomily, "Hey, I was just looking to get off with someone. I never promised to take care of the blighter, through sickness or health or any of that." But he was grinning, as he caught Harry's eye. "You always do manage to cock things up for me."

Harry kept his silence as he leaned on the door. He couldn't imagine what he could possibly contribute to this bizarre conversation. Somehow they'd moved in the last two hours from him hiding his disturbing feelings, to drunkenly confessing them, to wildly snogging with Draco, to being dragged away by an ignorance-feigning Hermione, then back to snogging, and onto Ginny's disturbance. Now Hermione and Draco were bantering about their relationship, if you could call a couple of snogs a 'relationship.'

Ginny parted her bloodless lips and cut in with a low, shaking voice, "You...you bastard." Both of the men glanced up, not knowing who she was addressing. From the way her glare jumped from Draco to Harry and back again, it seemed as if she wasn't sure either. "How could you..." she hissed, looking more than a little unhinged after Hermione's revelation--even more than before that is.

"What?" Draco turned on her and all the humour in his voice had evaporated. "Be happy?"

Moments ago, he'd looked childish, petulantly eating his biscuits, but now he looked like what he truly was: an arrogant, ruthless, former Death Eater. "You wouldn't want that, would you? You wanted him to be as miserable as you. To need you as much as you needed him. To _want_ you as much as you wanted him" Each sentence made her flinch like a physical blow. Draco went for the kill, half-rising from his seat and snarling, "It just _kills_ you, doesn't it, to see him happy _without you._ And that's exactly why he's happy, you know. Because you're not a part of his life--"

Ginny pulled her wand furiously and shrieked, " _Shut up!_ Just _shut up!_ " She brandished her wand at the magicless man and began to curse him, " _Caput frend--!"_

" _Expelliarmus!"_

" _Petrificus totalus!"_

Before she could even finish the curse that would have struck Draco down with a blinding pain, Harry had disarmed her and Hermione then petrified her before her furious expression could melt into shock.

Hermione picked up the wand that had gone flying from Ginny's now-frozen fingers. She placed it on the table next to the tea set and, falling back into her chair, looked up at the frozen witch. The spell she had attempted wasn't strictly black magic, but it was so ambiguously close to it that a right-minded witch or wizard would never use it, especially over a verbal attack. Shaking her head in a defeated manner, she said, "We should probably contact someone..."

"Who?" Harry asked, seriously. "What do you even do in this circumstance?"

Hermione shrugged tiredly. It was well past eleven, after all, and she'd been up and working since five that morning. "That's rather up to you, Harry. If you wish to press some sort of criminal charges, we should involve the ministry and they'll begin an investigation. If you want to resolve this more privately, I would suggest contacting the Weasleys and making sure she gets some kind of help."

Harry looked ill as he considered the prospect of facing the whole Weasley clan. Would they all resent him as much as Ginny seemed to, in her own warped way?

Hermione took the decision out of his hands by saying, "Well, we certainly can't leave her petrified in my sitting room and we can hardly let her go alone in this state. We'll get Madame Pomfrey to set her up down in the Hospital Wing and I'll send an owl to the Weasleys, to inform them that she's here. I don't think we should or can explain all of this in a letter, but they'll wonder if she never comes home tonight and they should be involved in whatever happens next."

Harry's relief was probably obvious. He seized the escape plan Hermione had provided. "Great. Right. Then we'll just pop down to the infirmary to wake Madame Pomfrey, shall we?"

Hermione nodded, looking sadly at the frozen witch in front of her. "Yes," she murmured, "you should."

Harry pulled the door open and was halfway down the hall before Hermione could change her mind. He slowed to a normal walking pace and looked behind himself; Draco was easily sauntering several meters behind him, seeing no need to rush about in such a dishevelled state. He waited for the blond to catch up, then they walked towards the hospital wing, their shoulders and hands brushing against one another's.

"So-o-o," Draco drawled the syllable suggestively, "that was interesting."

Harry couldn't but laugh; albeit a little hysterically. He was snogging the king of the understatement. This thought made him laugh even harder. Eventually his laughter dried up and Draco was still standing there, with a tolerant look on his face. They started walking again.

"Yes," Harry mused aloud, "my kindly stalker, who was only trying to protect me..." He grimaced, as the reality of the situation sank in. "All those years. I mean, it's not like I couldn't have gone out on my own, and obviously, I didn't. But maybe if I'd known..." 

Draco reassured him with a wicked grin, "Well, if you hadn't stayed locked away, you most assuredly would not have arrived at the strange junction of snogging the Wizarding World's most eligible Dark Wizard and surely that's worth living for five years in some mad woman's private fantasy." He said with a satisfied smirk, "Silver lining, Potter. Silver lining."

Harry pretended to gag. "Most eligible Dark Wizard? A powerless, albino drunkard? Thanks for reassuring me yet again that I chose the 'winning side.'"

Draco also remembered his immature threat from years before. "What does your 'winning side' have to offer, then? Neville Longbottom? I maintain that you chose the losing side."

Grinning, Harry impulsively leaned over and stole a quick nibbling kiss. The knowing smirk that greeted him afterwards gave him a thrill that ran straight from his head to somewhere not quite as far south as his toes. Then Draco shoved him none too gently, propelling him forward and saying, "We have a job to do, remember?" Before Harry could react, though, the blond whispered suggestively in his ear, "And the sooner we finish it, the sooner we can get back to what we were doing before we were so rudely interrupted by Granger." He slapped Harry on the arse and then ran away, laughing uproariously as Harry chased wildly after him through the halls. If any of the other teachers in their rooms heard the commotion, they seemed content to ignore it for now.

 

 

 

After arriving out of breath at the hospital wing, the men had had a brief tussle over who would dare wake Madam Pomfrey. They'd both been subject to her wrath on enough occasions that neither wanted to be the one to disrupt her sleep. It was just past midnight, after all. But they were saved from making the choice themselves when the matron herself came out of the Hospital Wing in a huff and in her nightgown, demanding to know why they were making such a fuss in front of her door at this ungodly hour of night.

Harry had no idea how to explain the situation with Ginny and in the opening that his silence left, Draco took it upon himself to tell Madame Pomfrey in quite colourful terms that "That littlest Weasley bint has gone completely off her trolley and was waving her wand about like she wanted to have my guts for garters and, well, Bob's your uncle, Fanny's your aunt--she's Petrified up in Granger's room and needs to be locked away in a soft room, if you ask me."

While Madame Pomfrey got her head around the stream of utter wank that had just come out of Draco's mouth, Harry slowly turned a barely tolerant look towards the man he'd declared--well, not love, but lust for. "You do this on purpose, don't you?"

Draco just grinned and Harry shook his head, muttering, "You have got to watch less telly."

Eventually, they convinced Madame Pomfrey in a more sensible way to come up with them to Hermione's rooms to collect Ginny. She conjured up a stretcher there in the sitting room and levitated the Petrified witch onto it, not planning to release her from that particular spell until she had her restrained safely in the hospital wing. With Hermione's reassurances that she would be contacting the Weasley family, the mediwitch bustled her newest ward back down to her wing for further care.

The three of them watched her go in silence, which quickly grew uncomfortable. Harry thought back to Hermione's revelation earlier and suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable standing between her and Draco. He thought about quickly fleeing, but realised that him and Draco rushing off together to be alone would look even worse in its implications. He was frozen on the spot until Hermione once again handed him an easy out by saying, "Well, I can only speak for myself, but I'm exhausted. And I still need to write that letter to the Weasleys, so why don't we say good night here and when you are up and ready tomorrow, Harry, you can pop by and we'll have a little chat about what you want to do next."

Harry gave her a small, sheepish smile and said gratefully, "Yes, I'll do that." He surprised her, and himself, by giving her a quick peck on the cheek before saying goodnight.

Then of course Draco ruined the friendly mood by trying to swoop in to give Hermione a dramatic kiss goodnight and getting her fist in his stomach instead. As he followed Harry out of the room, he wheezed reproachfully, "How come only you get to act all suave?" He was still rubbing his stomach ruefully.

Harry watched him limp back across the hall to their rooms and said softly, "Do you want me to kiss it and make it better?"

Draco winked. "I'd love to see you try."

They slipped back into their temporary haven in the history professor's room and shut the door firmly behind them.


	21. In Which Many Things Come to Light

**Chapter Twenty-One**

_In Which Many Things Come to Light_

 

Harry's eyes flickered open and he stretched his back lazily. His muscles twinged slightly, with the pleasant dull ache of well-earned soreness. He rolled onto his side and came face to face with the source of that soreness; Malfoy was so close that even a myopic fool like Harry didn't need his glasses. Draco was still asleep and lying on his side, turned towards Harry. A lock of his white blond hair had fallen over his face, half-hiding the heavy lids of his closed eyes. Harry reached out a careful hand and softly pushed that hair off the familiar face, looking at it for what seemed like the first time in ages.

He'd known Malfoy's face so well that he hadn't really looked at it since the man had suddenly reappeared in his life. Of course he _saw_ the man's face--as much as every hour of every day, recently--but he hadn't looked at his face, not like a stranger might. Not like someone seeing it for the first time. Ever since he had come face to face with Malfoy in the small doctor's surgery in Godric's Hollow, when he looked at the blond, he had still automatically seen the pale, excited, and nervous boy who had first spoken to him in Madame Malkin's robe shop and who had held his hand out to Harry only to be rebuffed in front of their whole class in first year. He remembered how that confident little face had slackened with bewildered shock and then quickly twisted into resentment.

Now he studied the man's face in front of him and realised that there was little left of that boy. The frail, pointed chin had grown into an adult's sharp jaw, still verging on delicate but decidedly stubborn and often clenched tensely, Harry had come to notice, with some silent emotion. The smooth, fresh skin of boyhood was long gone and although Draco was still remarkably fair, there were often bags under his eyes and, as now, an almost invisible stubble along his cheeks, only noticeable when the blond hairs caught the light. And Harry had seen him after nights of hard drinking, when his skin looked dry and old, and his grey irises would look almost blue against his bloodshot eyes.

Harry drew a soft finger down the line of Draco's nose, which he now saw must have been broken at least once. There was a small but unmistakable crook in it that Harry knew had not been there when they had been children. When had it happened? And why hadn't he noticed? Why hadn't he noticed that this man was an entirely different person than the seventeen-year-old he'd left behind with Voldemort, in a small bare room in an orphanage somewhere in London? Draco shifted in his sleep and Harry's gaze was drawn down to the bare body that he knew from very recent experience was not a boy's body.

It may have been the infatuation and lust speaking, but Harry suddenly realised that the man in front of him was achingly perfect. The lines of his face, the symmetry of his cheekbones, the narrow track of his nose, even the way that his eyelashes lay gently on his skin in sleep...everything about him made Harry think of a painting, one of those paintings by the Masters that looked more life-like than even life but somehow unreal because nothing in reality was quite so perfect.

Harry lifted his hand and fingered the pale blond hair that hadn't changed over the years. Without moving, Draco spoke up in a calm voice and asked, "What are you doing, Potter?" Harry started violently.

"How long have you been awake?" he asked unsteadily, snatching his hand back self-consciously.

"I asked my question first." Draco opened his grey eyes and looked straight into Harry's face, barely a foot away. His lips curled into sly smile.

Harry answered without thinking. "I was just thinking about your hair."

Draco's smile spread into an amused grin and he propped his head up on one hand, saying, "Well, I can certainly understand why. But I think you should be more concerned with the state of your own hair." There was practically a twinkle in his grey eyes as he glanced up at Harry's mop of pitch black hair, even more mussed than usual after just waking up. It utterly defied gravity in places and stuck straight up and at all sorts of angles.

Unable to resist the futile attempt to flatten his rat's nest into something resembling human hair, Harry spoke next with one hand pressing his hair furiously down. "No, I mean--I was just thinking about how you used to wear it all slicked back and awful when we were young. I was trying to remember just when you stopped doing that."

Draco pulled a face. "In third year."

Harry reached out bravely to run his fingers through that fine hair again and was rewarded with the sight of Draco letting his eyes fall shut with the tiniest little happy sound. "Why did you change then?" he asked, letting his eyes roam over that relaxed face and watching it contract in slight sign of disquiet. Something had disturbed Malfoy. "Did you finally realise that it made you look like a drowned rat?" he chided, in a gently teasing tone.

Draco's lips twitched in appreciation. "No, but thank you for that," he said wryly, opening his eyes to give Harry a tolerating look. "Besides, I still looked like a rat, just not a drowned one. I was such a pointy young thing, wasn't I?" He favoured Harry with a nostalgic smirk. "Pansy used to say that if I didn't cut myself on my own sharp wit, I was like to do it with my own pointed chin." His whole face crinkled up in mirth this time, as he laughed. "She really was a bit of a bitch, wasn't she?"

Harry certainly wasn't going to argue with that and he nodded, saying, "That she was." But he didn't elaborate--though he could have; oh, could he ever have--and he waited to see if Draco would explain himself.

Under Harry's curious eye, Draco flopped onto his back. He stared up at the stone ceiling above them and suggested, "I guess I just felt it was time for a change?" He glanced at Harry, then his face lit up and he said, "No, I've thought of a better answer. 'I'd just got my subscription to _Warlocks Who Rock_?'"

"Malfoy," Harry said seriously, "you do not, nor did you ever, 'rock.'" Draco looked ready to protest, and probably bring up the previous evening as evidence on his behalf, but Harry continued before he could. "Rocking _other_ things doesn't count. Now, you may be charming, seductive, and irresistible," Draco looked pleased, "but you are definitely not a rocker. You play the piano, you great girl's blouse."

Draco's expression clearly said that he had weighed what he possessed against what he lacked and--as usual--decided that he was still clearly on the winning side. He looked quite pleased with himself, and it was in that mood that he reminded Harry, "You know, I don't have to tell you a thing. You don't even have any questions left, after all."

Bemused, Harry asked semi-seriously, "Do we still need them?"

In return, he got an incredulous scoffing from Draco, who told him in no uncertain terms "Of course we still need them! What's a relationship if not a constant battle of leverage? What holds two people together if not the never-ending cut-throat fight to control one another?"

Harry thought for a moment. "Really hot sex?"

"You," Draco said, his grin almost splitting his face, "you may just be on to something, Potter. I can hardly believe the words are coming out of my mouth," he continued, as he rolled over, holding himself up over Harry by mere inches, "but you may just be a genius." He let himself fall down into Harry's kiss, revelling once again in the physical joy of this peculiar man. Harry, for his part, immediately wrapped his arms around Draco in return, arching up against him eagerly. For two people that had practically been untouched for years, this contact was like the proverbial spot of light after they had walked so long through a featureless black tunnel--neither had yet considered the possibility that the light was an oncoming train.

 

 

 

About an hour later, Harry had finally forced himself out of bed and into the shower. He had promised Hermione that he would meet with her that morning, after all. As much as he wanted to stay in bed, whiling the morning away, he would have to do it alone, because Draco at least was determined to get some quality time in at the library on his free Saturday. Classes were cutting far into the time they dedicated to research, despite Draco's revolutionary 'no homework, no essays' policy (otherwise known as Draco's revolutionary 'no need to waste time with marking' policy).

Freshly showered and hair still dripping, Harry headed out of the empty rooms wearing yet another set of Draco's clothes; this time it was a pair of grey trousers, a white collared shirt, and a dark green jumper just a shade deeper his eyes. Draco had left the clothes out for him before he had gone to the library, while Harry had still been in the shower. Harry made a mental note to tease him for being such a stereotypical great pouf next time he saw him, though even he had to admit that the clothes looked good.

_Pouf,_ he thought distractedly, as he tucked his wand into his back pocket and headed across the hall to Hermione's set of rooms. _I'm a pouf. I'm a pouf, pouf, pouf._ It didn't feel strange or surprising to think it. That's not to say that it felt fitting, like it was something he had long suspected. But yet it wasn't quite strange. Harry shrugged and knocked on Hermione's door. He'd never been great at deep and meaningful self-examination.

Hermione opened the door and for the first time in the week that they'd been reunited, Harry was a bit surprised to see her wearing Muggle clothes instead of robes. She had her hair caught up in a messy knot, and was wearing a worn pair of jeans and an old jumper that Harry recognised as one of Mrs Weasley's creations. He wondered for a moment if it had been on purpose. But Hermione spoke first, a hint of a smirk in her voice. "One night and he's turned you into a Slytherin, has he?"

Harry blinked in surprise and looked down at himself, realising for the first time that his outfit looked rather a bit like the Slytherin uniform. He wondered if _that_ had been on purpose. He pulled off the jumper within the moment, causing his hair to stand on end yet again and causing Hermione to make a little disapproving sound. He crumpled the jumper up and threw it on her couch, before throwing himself down in the armchair, looking up at her expectantly with his white shirt rumpled and riding up on his narrow torso.

Hermione disappeared into the next room, calling behind her, "I didn't mean for you to take it off." She came back in from what was apparently some sort of kitchen carrying a teapot and two mismatched cups on a small tray. "You looked quite fetching in it." She pulled off the tea cosy gingerly.

Still eyeing the jumper, Harry pointed out resentfully, "You made us go down to the kitchens last night to get tea."

Hermione rolled her eyes and said in an isn't-this-obvious sort of tone, "Of course I did. I had to have an excuse to leave and get you, didn't I? What, should I have just brought out my own tea and then said, 'Oh, bugger me, need to pop out because I've run out of demerera sugar? Excuse me while I run out and borrow some off the fellows down the hall and, incidentally, bring them back to interrogate you.'" She smiled at him as poured him a cup of tea. "You are just so thick sometimes, Harry."

Cheeks burning despite his fervent wishing that they wouldn't, Harry took the offered tea and blew on it to avoid making any sort of response. Hermione picked up the jumper from beside her and folded it neatly, smoothing it in her lap. "I've been down to see Ginny this morning," she said quietly. Her anger towards the witch seemed to have faded again, as quickly as it had flared up the night before. "She's still trying to talk her way out of things. I told her that her parents would be here today." She picked up her tea cup, leaving the jumper in her lap, and took a sip before continuing. "I got an immediate reply from the Weasleys last night, of course. It was all I could do to deter them from setting out in the middle of the night. They agreed to come today."

She looked at Harry with a strange expression. It wasn't pitying like the night before, but it wasn't blaming him either. The impression that Harry got from that look was that she didn't want the responsibility for whatever was to happen to him next. It left him feeling a bit cold; Hermione had stood behind him every time he'd really needed her when they'd been teenagers. Now it seemed she was going to stand aside. "What are you going to do, Harry?"

He looked away from her open stare, looking down at the jumper that lay in her lap, the jumper that Draco had chosen for him. He hadn't given another thought to the situation with Ginny. He'd had more than enough to distract him the previous night, even if he had wanted to think about it, which he hadn't. "I'm still not sure," he waffled, trying to buy time, "don't you think we ought to talk with the Weasleys first? See what they think is best?"

Hermione was not fooled by his transparent attempts at avoidance. "And what are you going to tell them?" she asked mercilessly.

"That--that..." Harry was at a loss. How was he going to tell Arthur and Molly Weasley that their precious only daughter was more than a bit unstable and had magically entrapped him for years? Even as he thought it, he felt embarrassed by the ridiculousness of the claim. She hadn't put him under the Imperius curse, or impaired him in any way. He could have walked out that door at any moment and sought out the world without any interference at all from her. What exactly was he accusing her of?

Then he could imagine Malfoy's voice in his head, telling him, "What exactly? I'll tell you what: being a certifiable bitch! The wench lied to your pathetic friends and purposefully subverted them from finding you, intentionally leaving you in your pathetic little puddle of depression. _And_ she practically stalked you, letting herself in and out of your house as she pleased! Doesn't that seem a bit off?" He almost smiled.

Straightening up a bit, Harry shrugged and said, "I'll tell them what I know of it. That she admitted to having cast some sort of charm on me, without me knowing. That she's been coming round for years, never telling me that you or anyone else was looking for me. And that her behaviour seems..." He seemed to run out of steam a bit and finished by saying awkwardly, "Abnormal."

Hermione resisted the urge to mockingly applaud. Finally, he had managed to speak up for himself--now if only he could do it again when faced with the couple who had been like parents to him during his time at Hogwarts. She had seen him struggling and had almost despaired for a moment; she truly did not want to be the one to deliver this blow to the Weasleys. She could bear it if she had to, of course. But she had an instinctive feeling that it was more important that Harry be the one to speak up for himself.

"I think," she said in a more gentle tone of voice, "that's a very good start, Harry."

 

 

 

Harry stepped off of the final, rough stone stair and into the vault under the library. As he'd expected to, he spied Draco sitting at one of the tables, books open all around him. Hurrying across the large, echoing space, Harry came up behind the blond man and, hesitating for only the briefest unsure moment, he put his mouth to Draco's delicate white ear and whispered, "We're all alone in a room where no one else can possibly interrupt us."

Draco's lips quirked into a small smile, but he said, "Except for Madam Pince or your friend Hermione. I can hardly imagine better woodkill." He continued to look at the open books in front of him, as Harry took the next seat. He asked absently, "What happened with your mate, then? Did she warn you against the dangers of buggery and Slytherins?"

Harry shifted self-consciously in his green jumper and remembered again his brief conversation with Hermione. She hadn't said anything much directly against Malfoy, surprisingly. Although she'd always been the most level-headed of the Gryffindors, she'd hated Malfoy at least as much as any of them, if not more. But she had simply warned him to be careful, reminding him that whether this was just some experiment or dalliance or something more, if the press were to get hold of it, he'd never get another day's peace.

He had thought about that the whole way down to the library, as he'd impatiently jogged through the halls. He certainly didn't want it to get out to anyone else--but even for the short period of time that he'd been with Hermione, running through the back of his mind was the desire to see Malfoy, to be near him, touching him, listening to his voice, and watching the way he talked, talking to him and having him listen in that faintly amused manner he always had. And now here he was and Draco was nodding along absently, as he stared unseeing at the books in front of him.

"What is it?" Harry asked, more curious than bothered.

Draco's eyebrows rose skeptically as he continued looking at the books and he told Harry in an odd tone of voice, "I think I may have found something." He glanced at Harry for the first time and corrected himself, "No, I think I may have found _it_. The solution. The cure. The bloody holy grail."

Harry was surprised because the first thing that he felt was a stab of almost paralysing dread. He had the sudden irrational thought that getting his powers back would result in Draco leaving him. His heart raced. He felt as if _this_ , whatever _this_ was, would only continue in this strange interlude while they were locked away at Hogwarts. As soon as they left Hogwarts for the real world, it would be go back to the way it was: Draco rattling around his mausoleum of a mansion, or worse, re-entering the magical world as the dark prince bastard he once was. And Harry would try to fill his days, alone, with his shoebox of a life in Somerset. It would be like living in a dark cave, after being shown the wonder of the stars.

Somewhere in the last month, he had apparently convinced himself that what he saw as the "new Draco" (and, subsequently, how he explained his lack of hatred for him) was the result of whatever transformative process the Dark wizard had gone through as a result of losing his power. If he got it back now, who would he become then? He would leave Hogwarts. Their reason for being here, the reason for Harry to be staying and working with him, would be gone.

Several moments had passed and Draco had gone back to staring at the books in front of him. Harry opened his mouth and closed it again, still trying to figure out what to say. Congratulations would generally be in order, but Harry felt like he would choke on the words. The sound of running steps interrupted their silence and Harry turned, feeling a cold, tingling relief wash over him. It was Hermione who came clattering down the last steps and into the room, announcing breathlessly, "The Weasleys have arrived, Harry. I think we should go."

Harry said in a dazed voice, completely malapropos of her message, "Malfoy thinks he may have found an answer."

"Oh!" Hermione gave a little surprised gasp, then as she thought about what it meant, her face grew more grave. "Oh." She caught sight of Harry's shell-shocked expression and said softly under her breath, " _Oh_."

She backed up a step and said, "I can go on ahead alone, if you'd like. Er, tell them that you're engaged at the moment...?"

"No, no," Harry shook himself. "I can go." He turned to Draco and asked distractedly, "Do you want to come ?"

Draco just stared back at him, faintly incredulous. Whether it was because of the preposterousness of the idea that he would leave this critical research or that he would leave it to be surrounded by Weasleys, Harry was still too dazed to wonder. He followed Hermione mutely back up the stairs and away from Draco.

 

 

 

They arrived at the great front doors of Hogwarts, where they found the Weasleys waiting for them. Harry wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, especially since most of his ideas and expectations seemed to have been flipped on their heads at least once or twice in the last twenty-four hours. He hadn't expected, though, for Molly Weasley to immediately bustle over to him and pull him into her warm, slightly potion-scented embrace. He was half a head taller than her, but she dragged him down, nearly wailing, "Oh, Harry, dear. We'd wondered so long..."

He could see Arthur Weasley over her shoulder, giving him a wobbly little smile. They both looked much older and more worn than he had remembered. The famous Weasley ginger hair was going decidedly grey on both of them, and Mrs Weasley in particular was much smaller and less powerful than she'd seemed when he was younger. She finally released him enough to step back and take in all of him, looking grown and healthy and well-dressed. Quite different from the scrawny, underfed eleven year old who had first asked her for directions to Platform 9¾, wearing baggy old rags and looking wide-eyed at everything from behind a pair of ridiculous round glasses. "Oh, you..." She chided him gently, reaching up to smooth his hair. "You gave us such a fright, disappearing like that."

Harry was speechless, staring down at her in complete amazement. Words started to spill out of him that he hadn't planned at all, and his eyes shot between Arthur and Molly Weasley as he confessed, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry--about Ron, I should have been there, or I shouldn't have let him come. I should have come to you in person, I should have been around to help..."

Mrs Weasley shushed him like a child, her eyes glistening. "Ron made his own choice, Harry," she said gently. "He wanted to help you, to save us all, and we have never once blamed you for what happened, dear. It was a war." Her smile trembled, but didn't break, and she whispered in a thick voice, "He was a hero."

Harry nodded, biting the inside of his lip. Molly Weasley shook herself in a manner reminiscent of a bird resettling her feathers and said in a more regular, brisk tone of voice, "Now, Hermione wrote and told us that Ginny was unwell and stayed here at Hogwarts last night."

Swallowing hard, Harry nodded. Now that the Weasleys had offered him their kindness and forgiveness, he was to tell them that their youngest daughter had been nearly as damaged by him as their youngest son. "That's right," he croaked, his voice as reluctant as the rest of him. "Ginny did stay here last night, in the Hospital Wing."

"The Hospital Wing?" Mrs Weasley repeated, in a slightly higher tone. "Dear me, was it that serious?"

Harry refused to look to Hermione for help and he soldiered on. "I think that she is physically fine, Mrs Weasley. The fact of it is...well, the fact of it is that she grew a bit hysterical and tried to curse Draco Malfoy with a very dodgy curse."

"The Head Splitting curse," Hermione finally interjected, only to be met with gasps by Ginny's parents.

Molly Weasley looked up at her husband, sharing an upset look. They both remembered the recent newspaper articles, claiming that Harry Potter had shown up at Hogwarts with Draco Malfoy. Ginny had reacted oddly to the papers; not happy or excited as they might have expected, she had gone pale and refused to say anything about the stories. And now she had turned up at Hogwarts trying to curse the young Malfoy? She'd always had a temper--they of course knew their daughter that much--but what had lead her to use a legally questionable curse on someone she barely knew?

"I think," Arthur Weasley said calmly, "that we should hear the whole story."

"Er," Harry hesitated, wondering just how whole of a story he should give them. "Right." He glanced about for a moment and suggested, "Do you want to go somewhere? Only talking about this in the main hall is a bit..." He wouldn't want any more rumours to get out, especially about him and Draco, especially when they might be true.

Hermione stepped in and she led them all to the small antechamber just before the Hospital Wing. The Weasleys had a seat on the cushioned benches. Harry stood in front of them nervously, aware of Hermione slightly behind him and off to the side. "So," he started slowly, "you've probably read how Malfoy and I came to arrive at Hogwarts."

Mrs Weasley made a nonplussed expression and replied, "Well, we've certainly seen the stories. And although the quality of the _Prophet_ has greatly improved since the war, we still don't believe everything we read there." She looked at him appraisingly. "Is it true then? That you and the Malfoy boy have been co-conspirators this whole time? That the two of you worked together during the war?"

Harry realised that the _Prophet_ had grown even more speculative since their first exclusive report on his reappearance. Co-conspirators? Honestly.

"I had heard rumours, of course," Arthur contributed. "Back at the Ministry, when the war crime trials were being carried out, there were quite a number of whispers going around about the young Malfoy. That he was to be let go, that he had offered his interrogators some sort of information or something..." He looked at Harry curiously.

It was Harry's turn to look a bit nonplussed. "Ah, yes, well. It is true that he helped me find the last Horcrux." He saw their blank looks and remembered belatedly that almost no one in the Wizarding world knew what a Horcrux was. Perhaps the only ones who still did were him, Hermione, Ginny, and Draco. And Slughorn, if the fat old bastard was still alive. But it was better that no one knew, so he explained quickly, "Er, they were just sort of power-holds of Voldemort's. Hermione and Ron helped me find all the others but there was one left and Malfoy led me to it." Harry's voice grew heavier as he thought of all that had happened after that. "And he took the brunt of Voldemort's wrath, while I escaped."

There were several moments of silence. Finally Mrs Weasley asked, "And how did Ginny get involved in all of this?"

"You see," Harry started and looked away, examining the ceiling with some interest. He dragged his eyes back to Mrs Weasley in front of him. "You see, Ginny's been coming to see me, these past several years."

"These past..." Mrs Weasley repeated disbelievingly. " _Years_? Did you say _years_?"

"So you didn't know, then."

Mrs Weasley was staring at him, incredulous. "Know _what_?"

Harry chewed on his lip nervously. "She said that you knew. She would bring things, from you and from the twins. Or at least she said that they were from you..."

Molly went white. She remembered a number of times when her daughter had told her that she was going to meet a friend, smiling sweetly and taking pies and things from the pantry. She normally popped out to meet these 'friends' of hers a couple of times a month, disappearing for hours at a time. Molly had never questioned that it wasn't just Hermione or one of her school mates. Could it really have been that she was going to see Harry?

"When I first came to Hogwarts, I was surprised to find that Hermione had been looking for me," Harry continued. "I didn't know anyone was looking for me. Ginny never said anything like that." Growing increasingly uncomfortable, Harry stated frankly, "It seems that Ginny was the only one who knew where I was. And it seems...that she had been hiding it from everyone else."

Putting a hand over her mouth, Mrs Weasley looked off to the side, towards the doors to the Hospital Wing. She wanted to believe that there was some sort of mistake, but she trusted that Harry had been an honest boy and had grown into an equally honest man. And Hermione--who Mrs Weasley was sometimes inclined to trust even more than her own trouble-making brood--wasn't denying any of it either.

"I think we should speak with Ginny and see what she has to say about all of this," Mr Weasley suggested, putting a reassuring hand on his wife's back.

Harry took a deep breath. "There's a bit more that you should know, before you do that." He swallowed hard, his throat having gone dry. "Last night, Ginny came to Hogwarts to talk with Hermione. Hermione went to get me--and Malfoy--because we..." He searched for words and settled on saying, "We had a concern. You see, Hermione had been to my house in Wiltshire, and she'd seen for herself what Malfoy had first suspected--that there was some sort of, of charm or spell on the house, which prevented anyone from finding it. Something like the Fidelius charm--only it couldn't have been, because I never knew about it." He looked at the greying couple in front of him reluctantly and repeated the damning facts that Draco had first stated above the bar in Hogsmeade a week ago. "Someone put a spell on my house that prevented anyone from finding it, magically or otherwise. But somehow Ginny was able to find to it, and she visited me--and she never told anyone else."

He could see that they were connecting the dots in their minds, realisation dawning horribly on their faces. "We suspected," he told them honestly, "that Ginny may have been the one to cast the spell on me and when we confronted her about it last night, she became sort of, er, hysterical."

Mrs Weasley had gone a horrid blotchy colour, torn between anger, shame, and pity. She drew herself up to her full height, which was not much more than five feet, and said distinctly, "I think it's time that we spoke with Ginevra."

Harry winced. He still remembered that any time Molly Weasley used her children's full names was a time you did not want to be around to witness. Hermione slipped into the Hospital Wing to summon Madam Pomfrey and they came back out in only a few moments.

Madam Pomfrey held up a cautioning hand and explained to the Weasleys, "I have given Miss Weasley a calming potion--just a mild one. Please try not to excite her overly." She gave Hermione a knowing look. "I'll be waiting just outside, in case she grows agitated."

Then she showed them through the Hospital Wing to the small room where Ginny was waiting. She was sitting atop a neatly made bed, leaning against the headboard with her long legs stretched out limply in front of her. She had been staring out the window, but turned when they entered the room. She paled even more than usual when she saw her parents behind Hermione and Harry. "M-Mum..."

"Don't you 'Mum' me, Ginevra Anne Weasley," her mother told her in a clipped tone. "Is this true? Did you know where Harry was all of these years? Did you really put some sort of _spell_ on him without him knowing?"

Ginny cowered back against the headboard. Her lips trembled as she said fervently, "I was just _helping_ him. Why doesn't anyone see that? I was doing what was best for him!"

Her father stepped closer to the bed and asked in an pacifying tone, "How were you helping him, Ginny? Can you explain it to us?"

Looking at him gratefully, Ginny leaped at the chance. "Like I told Hermione last night," she said, with an uncharitable look at the friend who had Petrified her, "I found Harry several years ago, after he moved to Godric's Hollow. I knew that was where he would go. When we were at school, he'd told me that he and his parents had lived there when he'd been a baby. He'd said we should go there together."

She looked at Harry meaningfully and he barely repressed the urge to grimace. He remembered the conversation, though it seemed like a different lifetime now: he and Ginny enjoying sunny afternoons down by the lake, sharing the shy secrets and promises of young love. It all seemed ridiculous to him now, but apparently not to her.

"I kept going there, expecting he would turn up sooner or later. And I prepared. As soon as I learned he'd bought a house there, I put a charm on it, so that no one would be able to find it through magic ways or Muggle." She looked up at her father, who was still returning her look seriously. "It was just months after he'd defeated Voldemort. I don't know where he was those months, but it was obvious that he needed time alone, away from the press and the Ministry and everyone else who would pester him.

"But Harry would never think to do something like that for himself." She turned to him again, speaking of him in that familiar way that he'd come to hate. "He's just so sweetly clueless. He never seemed to realise that anyone who knew anything would come looking for him in Godric's Hollow and the reporters would be camping out in his front garden before long."

Beneath his revulsion, Harry knew that she was right about that, at least. He'd never worried about people finding him in the famous village where his parents had perished and Voldemort had disappeared. And he'd never wondered why no reporters had ever come to get the greatest exclusive ever: the story of just how he'd defeated Voldemort the second time.

Mrs Weasley seemed ready to launch back into the conversation, but her husband held up a pacifying hand and continued to direct his questions at Ginny. "And you started to visit him then?"

"That's right." She looked down at her lap and then hazarded a tender look up in Harry's direction, her voice fading almost to a whisper. "He was so lost then. The first time I came to his front door, he seemed half mad. I knew he wasn't ready to come back to everyone. He needed time to heal. He needed me to help him heal."

"I see. Then why didn't you tell us or Hermione that you knew where he was? You knew she was looking for him. In fact, you were helping with the search."

Although his soothing tone hadn't changed, Ginny looked wounded. "I thought you understood--he wasn't ready for that. And if I told any of you, you would have apparated over there in a moment. You know you would have!"

Arthur looked as his wife, knowing that she certainly would have. "All right," he said mildly, "but do you understand now that hiding this fact from everyone else hurt them?"

Ginny's lips trembled for a moment, but then she pressed them together and said stubbornly, "It was best for Harry. If they loved Harry as much as I do, they would understand." She smiled, looking a little bit mad. "But I know that none of you love him as much as I do. That's all right; you couldn't. He and I are meant to be together, after all."

Harry was watching Mr Weasley with a sort of new-found respect. He'd always respected the man, of course, but he'd never known just how skilled he was at handling people. It explained how he had survived at the Ministry so long, even during the dark years when the Death Eaters had practically taken it over. But even he couldn't respond to this last wild claim, so he returned to his earlier line of questioning. "And how did Harry feel about all of this, do you think? Wouldn't he have wanted to know that people cared about him and wanted to see him?"

Her face crumpling into a sort of bewildered betrayal, she told him, "Why don't you _understand_? I keep telling you! He was too hurt, too damaged." She glared at the Harry standing before her now, looking none too hurt nor damaged. "He wasn't like _this_. This is just Malfoy's doing. He's the one who--he's the one-- _he_ _ruined everything!_ "

Tears had begun to leak down her cheeks, but she made no move to wipe them away. "He took Harry out of his home, where _I'd_ kept him safe. He took him away from _me_. But Harry isn't allowed to be with anyone other than me! He _owes_ me that! He said that we should be together! He said--he said..."

She was nearly yelling as she went on hysterically. "We are meant to be together! That's why all of this happened! Why Tom Riddle possessed me, why Ron got Kissed! It was all because of Harry! It was all his fault! And that's why he has to--"

The door opened and Madam Pomfrey came bustling in, carrying a tall glass of a deep purple potion. She stepped past Mr and Mrs Weasley and held out the potion to Ginny expectantly. "Now, now, Miss Weasley. Let's have a nice big swig of this potion and all calm down a bit."

Ginny had hesitated momentarily in her rant, but it only took her a moment to regain her momentum. "I will _not_ ," she spat hatefully. "Don't you dare talk to me like a child! I did what none of you could have! I was the only one who could find him, I'm the only who can--"

Her words were silenced again, but this time with a wave of Madam Pomfrey's wand, which had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Ginny blinked sluggishly and looked up at Pomfrey in bewilderment. The mediwitch said gently, "Now, that's a good girl. Drink up your potion."

Everyone was astonished when Ginny reached out for the potion willingly and took an eager sip of it. "What is that?" Hermione asked in a shocked tone. She'd never seen that level of control outside of the Imperius curse.

"It's a spell known only to medical practitioners," she replied sharply, giving Hermione a quelling look. "It is exclusively used for getting difficult patients to take their medicine, and that is all."

After Ginny had gulped down half the glass, Madam Pomfrey waved her wand again, releasing the spell. By now, the potion had begun to course through Ginny and her hands, still holding the glass, fell limply to her lap. Madam Pomfrey plucked the glass up and turned back to the others. "I think," she said in a voice that brooked little question, "that Miss Weasley has had enough excitement for now."

Mr Weasley was watching his daughter with sad, serious eyes. Mrs Weasley simply looked horrified and heart-broken. She turned to the old mediwitch with a voice no stronger than a whisper. "What do you think we should do, Madam Pomfrey? What--what sort of care options are there?"

The three of them began to talk in hushed tones of how they might help Ginny, and Hermione took the opportunity to glance at Harry. She asked quietly, "So, Malfoy may have found his answer?"

It took Harry a moment to respond. He'd become so caught up in the spectacle of Ginny that Malfoy had been temporarily pushed out of his mind. Now all the feelings that had swamped him in the vault below the library lapped at him again, rising like a tide. "Yeah," he said in hoarse voice, "that's what he seemed to think."

"And yet," she continued, watching him carefully, "this isn't good news? I thought this was what you wanted? Isn't this why you came along to Hogwarts with him, why you left your private life behind? All because you felt you had to help him regain his magic?"

Harry remembered the excuses and they felt like lies now. Even then he'd been somehow attracted to Malfoy. He hadn't seen it for what it was, he'd only known that he wanted to be around the blond man for even just a moment longer, no matter where it took him. "I had thought so. That's what I had told myself. But now..." Harry screwed up his face, embarrassed and pained. "It sounds stupid, I know. But I feel like bad things will happen if we go down that path."

Hermione couldn't meet his eyes, because she felt the same way, but for different reasons; she just didn't trust Malfoy. Her eyes fell on Ginny again and she started slightly. The witch was watching them closely, her lips pressed together in a white line and her eyes narrow with hatred and knowledge. And Hermione looked away.


	22. In Which An Owl Is Sent

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

In Which An Owl Is Sent

 

Ginny and her father were alone in the small room in the hospital wing. Mrs Weasley had left with Hermione and Harry, obviously to talk out of Ginny's hearing. Ginny was still outwardly calm, thanks to Pomfrey's potions, but that didn't mean that her mind had paused in its dangerous calculations for even a moment. Now she leaned toward her father slightly, holding out a frail, white hand.

"Dad," she said in a small, lost voice. As she'd expected, he caught her hand in his own, patting it gently.

"You should just try to rest now, Ginny," he said hoarsely. "Everything will seem better once you've rested. I'm sure of it."

But he didn't look sure and he had provided Ginny with just the opening that she'd been hoping for. She fell back against the pillow tiredly and confessed, "But I can't, Dad. Not when I know that Harry could be somewhere--this very moment--alone with that Malfoy." Her deep brown eyes slid back to him, full of worry. "You _know_ that he was a Death Eater."

"Well, yes." Arthur spoke reluctantly, lowering himself to sit on the edge of her bed. "But he _was_ cleared by the Ministry. And they surely had their reasons."

Her eyes seemed to harden for a moment, but then they were soft and limpid again and Arthur told himself that it was just his imagination. Then his daughter squeezed his hand and said earnestly, "You must know something. You must have heard...at work...at the Ministry. About why they let him go." Arthur frowned and Ginny quickly continued, "If only I knew, then I wouldn't have to worry so much about Harry." She let her eyes fall shut tiredly. "Then I could finally rest."

Arthur Weasley looked down at his only daughter, looking so weak and ill. He told her softly, "I really don't know--it wasn't my department." He watched as first one and then another tear slowly leaked from under her thin crepe-like lids. He grimaced. "I've only ever heard rumours."

Her eyes opened slowly, framed by thick lashes that were glistening with tears. "Rumours?"

"Yes, there were rumours." He watched her, feeling uncomfortable. "Are you sure you want to talk about this now?"

She flinched and looked away. "Oh, Dad," she whispered, "I'm just so tired of worrying and feeling all alone. If there were anything that could put my mind at ease..."

Mr Weasley sighed. "Well, what people were saying at the Ministry was that Malfoy was let free because he was no longer a threat to public security. The rumour was that he had lost all of his magic--that he was no more than a squib."

Ginny immediately remembered that when she had pulled her wand on the Death Eater the night before, he had been the only one not to pull a wand on her in return. A knowing smile curved her pale lips into something beautiful and dangerous. "Thanks, Dad. I think I can rest now."

 

 

 

Harry stood next to Hermione, watching Mrs Weasley head back into the hospital wing to talk with Madame Pomfrey again. She looked so sad and small, he thought, with her frumpy robes and frazzled, greying hair. He thought for the first time in a long while of his own mother, wondering how she would have handled something like this. In the end, though, it was just empty speculation; he knew next to nothing about his mother, after all.

He could feel Hermione looking at him and he said aloud, "I think I'll head back down to the vault."

"Would you like me to come?" she asked mildly.

"Er," he paused, as he seriously considered it, "I think not." He gave her a tight smile. "But I'm sure we'll need your help later."

Her eyebrows rose speculatively, but she didn't say anything more than: "Well, just come find me if you need anything. I'll probably be here with the Weasleys for some time."

Harry winced slightly, feeling as if he should stick around, as well. But he couldn't keep his mind from wandering back to Malfoy, imagining the blond bent over a pile of texts alone in that gloomy cavern, discovering the greatest secret of his life. Harry had no idea what he would say to him, but he did know that he wanted to be there.

He hurried from the hospital wing, striding quickly through the halls. He loped past students on their way to Hogsmeade or out onto the grounds. By the time he arrived back at the entrance to the library, he was practically running. He yanked open the heavy oak door and then he slammed straight into the one person he'd wanted to see.

Malfoy stumbled backwards, his books scattering as he tried to break his fall. "Shit, Potter!" he exclaimed, hastily picking up the books before Madam Pince might notice just how they were treating the ancient manuscripts that she had entrusted to them so reluctantly. "Where's the bloody fire?"

Despite his initial shocked anger, though, he was already grinning again by the time Harry helped him to his feet. He purposefully leaned into Harry, under the pretext of getting his balance, and said softly, "Are you _that_ eager for another go?"

He winked suggestively and Harry found that, despite all of his misgivings and despite all of his fears, he still wanted nothing more than to throw himself on the man in front of him. Was this lust? Had he fallen in lust with Draco Malfoy?

The thought made him smile and he propelled Draco out of the library and away from Pince's watchful eyes. He had chosen to ignore Draco's typically laden comment and asked innocently, "So where are we going?"

"Well, most people opt for someplace private; bedrooms are a first choice," Draco said, continuing with his innuendos, "but if you can handle the danger of possibly getting caught..." Without even appearing to check for witnesses, Draco snaked out his free arm and pulled Harry sharply against him, kissing the surprised man so deep and hard that Harry couldn't help sagging against him weakly. When Draco finally pulled back, he blinked dazedly. Draco could hardly blame him, since all of Harry's blood had quite obviously rushed from his brain to other parts of his anatomy. And Draco was finding himself equally aroused by the teasing he himself had started, especially when Harry said simply, "There's a hidden tunnel just down this hall."

Draco's grey eyes had gone dark. "That'll do."

 

 

 

When they emerged back into the main hall, a good half hour later and straightening their clothes surreptitiously, Harry asked again, "So, really, where are we going?"

Draco raised his eyebrows, looking at Harry from beneath his wildly mussed hair. "You just came and you already want to go again?"

Harry looked at him: Draco, with his shirt hanging half open, exposing the sharp lines of his collarbones and the throbbing pulse in his pale neck, with his fine hair hanging into his dilated eyes, with his belt still undone around his narrow waist. Neither needed to say another word.

 

 

 

This time they didn't even make it out of the hidden corridor. In the musty dark behind a portrait of some magical theoretician or another, they lay limply and trying to catch their respective breaths. Draco was leaning against the rough wall, which dug into his bare back uncomfortably. But he didn't care enough yet to move and dislodge Harry, who was sprawled across his lap, collapsed bonelessly against his sweaty chest. He dropped a kiss into the black wilds of Harry's hair, then leaned down enough to nibble at the man's salty neck.

Harry moaned weakly, unable to make any other response just yet. Draco laughed softly and Harry savoured the sound of that hoarse laugh and the feel of it against him. He managed to part his lips and ask, "So wha' d'you fin' out?" Hmm. That hadn't worked quite as well as he'd expected.

Draco laughed again, wrapping his arms around Harry and squeezing him until he let out a little distressed noise. "I'm still not sure. But there are a number of mentions in this text of theories on magic transference. How we transfer magic to objects when we enchant them, or to people when we curse them. Theories on how magic moves from one being to another. I think this must have been what Voldemort was on to, if he was really the one to create the curse." He stared into the dark. "Even that spell that you said Granger used to wipe the Horcruxes...if we could just understand the theory, if we could create a charm to oppose it..."

Harry asked in a clear voice this time, "Do you really think it's possible?"

"I don't know that it's possible for me to become a 'normal' wizard again. But I think...I think it might just be possible that I could somehow gather magic in magical environments--like a sort of magnet for magic--enough to use that power as my own." He sighed, his breath ruffling Harry's damp hair. "It means I would also be limited by my environment and that I could only do magic in very magical places, but...it would be _something_."

"That's what you want, then," Harry mused almost inaudibly. Then he asked in a normal tone, "What would you do then? Go live in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley or someplace, and be a wizard?" He could feel Draco go still. It took the man several moments to respond.

"I'm not entirely sure," Draco said slowly. "I don't know that I could live anywhere in Wizarding Britain, anyway, without having to dodge curses every day." He frowned. He'd simply been consumed with the puzzle, with finding the right pieces and making them fit. He hadn't given much thought to what he would do with himself as a (more or less) proper wizard again. He'd always unconsciously imagined his life before the war: living in the manor or at Hogwarts, playing Quidditch and experimenting with magic just because he could.

Was he really just getting his powers back so that he could tweak spells and play a bit of pick-up Quidditch? Though it would be brilliant to fly against Harry again.

He grinned a bit as he whispered into Harry's ear, "The first thing I'd do is challenge you to a Quidditch match. Seeker on Seeker. Though we're both nearly a decade out of practice."

Harry couldn't help smiling to himself at the thought of facing Draco Malfoy across a Quidditch pitch again. Flying against him. With him. His ill-feelings about Malfoy regaining his powers weren't gone but even he had to admit that the idea made his heart pound. As did imagining his grown-up Malfoy in those emerald Quidditch robes.

Draco felt a faint stirring where Harry was lying pressed against his stomach, and he whispered, interspersed with nipping kisses, into that ear, "Just what kind of Quidditch are you picturing, Potter?"

"Would you like me to describe it to you?" Harry asked, knowing exactly what it would do to the blond.

Draco groaned. "I would love for you to," he said, but then he continued ruefully, "but we have to get up from this rough stone or my arse is going to look as cratered as the moon."

Harry laughed and they dragged themselves up, gathering their clothes in the nearly complete dark of the tunnel. They dressed clumsily, and then Draco picked up his three books and Harry checked his pockets for his wand, and they sneaked out into the hall again.

They had just swung the portrait shut when a group of students came out of the library, clamouring for lunch. Overhearing the teenagers' conversation, they realised at nearly the exact same time that they were absolutely ravenous.

"Kitchens?" Harry suggested, but then he remembered Dobby and pulled a face.

Draco was frowning for very similar reasons. He called out sharply, "Merry!" Harry looked at him in surprise as he barked, "Merry, _now_!"

"Are you really--" 

Harry didn't even have time to finish his question before the spiteful-looking old house elf appeared with a sharp _crack_. "Master?" he croaked resentfully.

As usual, Malfoy ignored that seething hatred easily and he was rubbing his hands together briskly. "Brilliant. Merry, I'd like a lunch to be delivered to our rooms immediately. That's all."

He waved his hand dismissively and the house elf disappeared with barely a bow.

"But," Harry fairly spluttered, "but--but there's a whole castle full of house elves right here!"

Draco shrugged and led the way back to the professors' wing, asking easily, "Shall we see what we can make of these books then?"

Harry had little choice but to ignore Draco's frivolity; arguing wouldn't change him a bit, after all. So they made it back to their rooms to find a spread of cold cuts, salads, finger foods, and tureens of steaming soups and stews. "Malfoy!" Harry couldn't help exclaiming, "you could feed half the school with this!"

"Don't be silly," Draco said calmly, as he plucked a cluster of grapes from a bowl of fruit. "This would barely feed a dozen people."

Harry watched him throwing grapes into his mouth. "Yes, but there's only _two_ of us."

"Invite your friend Granger over then." Draco bit into another grape and licked the juice from his lips, before biting his lower lip suggestively. "You could even invite your _girlfriend_ , Marianthi."

Harry pulled a disgusted face and as he sat down at the small desk, pulling a piece of parchment towards himself, he muttered, "I can't believe you're still bringing her up. How many times do you have to sleep with a bloke before you stop taking the piss out of him?"

Draco came and leaned over Harry at the desk. He took the man's surprised face in his hands and looked at him seriously, examining those green eyes. Then he said, softly and sincerely, "I promise you now, Harry I'm-a-wanker-Scarface Potter, that I will _never_ stop taking the piss out of you." Then he was off, sniggering and tossing grapes up in the air and trying to catch them with his mouth.

Harry didn't react at all for a long moment, and then his cheeks filled with a rush of hot blood. Turning his flushed face back to the parchment in front of him, he mumbled in embarrassment, "And my name is not 'I'm-a-wanker-Scarface.' Who would give their child a name like that? Type of fools who name a kid Draco, that's who..."

Draco cut across his grumbles by clearly enunciating, "Harry. James. Potter." When Harry spun around to goggle at him in shock, Draco winked knowingly.

Silenced, Harry quickly scribbled out a note to Hermione, inviting her to their late lunch. He folded it as he walked to the door. Then he opened the door to the hallway, gave the note a quick tap with his wand, and it was off to find Hermione, fluttering down the halls of Hogwarts on its paper wings.

Students watched it go by them in surprised amusement, trying to grab at it or even spell it down. But Harry's charm was strong and the frail paper bird flitted past their grasping hands and danced out of the path of their spells. A number of students, with nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon, started following it, wanting to know who the mysterious note was from and who it was for. When it found Hermione in the hall outside of the hospital wing and landed in the hands she held out in surprise, the small crowd of students came stumbling to a stop in front of her.

She frowned at them disapprovingly and waved them away. "This is the hospital wing, not a hang out for bored students."

"But what's that charm?" a persistent fifth year Ravenclaw asked.

"Miss Miggins," Hermione said in a final tone, "if you would really like to know, then I suggest you take it up with our guests, Messrs Potter and Malfoy."

With no small amount of disappointed grumbling, the students dispersed and Hermione had the chance to unfold her unexpected note. She didn't know when Harry had picked up the spell but she was sure it had come from Malfoy; it had always been his trademark at Hogwarts and one that no one else had ever figured out. As expected, the writing on the parchment was Harry's angular scrawl:

_Hermione -_

_Malfoy did something stupid as usual and the house elves have delivered a bloody feast to our rooms. Care for a late lunch? Be warned, though: if you start talking about tremendously dull magical theory, you'll be left on your own to deal with Malfoy, because I'll have passed out from the boredom._

_-H._

Hermione held the note in one hand, slapping it against the opposite palm absently. She'd just left the elder Weasleys for some private time, and she _was_ hungry, after all. She set out in the direction of the staff quarters, wondering what a meal alone with Draco and Harry would be like. Not boring, she'd hazard to guess.

When the two of them were alone together, they were like completely different people. She still wondered just what was real and what was an act. Was Malfoy truly witty and wry, or was he really still cruel and manipulative? Had Harry ever really been open and trusting, or had he always been as guarded as he seemed now? Still, she knew that she got to see him more at ease than anyone else did. Even if it was only thanks to Malfoy's presence and influence.

No, they were never boring. Baffling, yes--but never boring.

She arrived at the history rooms and rapped on the door smartly. There were several moments of busy silence and just when she was about to knock again, she heard Draco's laughing voice: "The door's open."

Still pondering that amused tone, she opened the door to find Harry struggling back into his shirt, while Malfoy was half-reclining on the couch with a smug grin. His faced was slightly flushed, but otherwise he seemed to be in a much better state than poor Harry.

As the glimpse of Harry's pale, clear skin disappeared beneath his green jumper, Hermione noted mildly, "Oh, you got the ink remover."

Draco waggled his restored eyebrows, which she also noticed for the first time. He smirked and said, "Madame Pomfrey's cupboards are ever so well stocked." He was clearly implying that they had raided the mediwitch's cupboards, but Hermione didn't rise to the bait. If Malfoy expected her to be shocked by that when she herself had stolen from _Snape_ 's cupboards when she was only twelve, he still had a lot to learn about Gryffindors.

She sat down at the opposite end of the couch and picked up a slice of cold lamb delicately, asking, "So research is going well?" She nibbled at the lamb, then started looking around the laden table for condiments.

Harry made a pained noise, knowing he'd never be able to stop the two of them from discussions of the properties of magic, a topic which they somehow found endlessly fascinating, while he found it to be singularly impenetrable. "There you go again," he moaned disparagingly. Lunch hadn't even started yet--or, at least, he for one hadn't got anything to eat yet--and already theory had reared its ugly, soporific head.

"Fine," Hermione said perfunctorily, "we'll talk about something else." She was building herself a sandwich from the cold lamb and thickly-sliced dark bread. She said conversationally, "I see that your fears about Malfoy getting his magic back haven't stopped you from snogging every chance you get."

Draco's piercing grey eyes shot to Harry, who was glaring at Hermione furiously. He watched the vein pulsing frantically in the man's temple as he hissed at his old friend, "What _are_ you talking about, Hermione?"

She was giving him an unimpressed look and Draco, watching this interplay, said to her admiringly, "You've got a bit of Slytherin in you, haven't you, Granger?"

She raised her eyebrows and retorted, "Not nearly as much as Harry's had in him in the past twenty-four hours."

There was a choking noise, and Harry and Hermione turned in surprise to find it coming from Draco. He had just attempted to swallow a grape when that wholly unexpected and entirely filthy comment had come out of Hermione Granger's mouth.

"Just when," he asked appreciatively, and a bit hoarsely, "did you get so interesting, Granger?"

She demurred. "Must have been some time between when you stopped being a pointy-faced ferret and when you started bumming my best friend."

Harry swallowed hard. "Theory!" he exclaimed, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. "Let's talk about theory, shall we?"

 

 

 

Ginny stood at the wide window of the Owlery later that afternoon, shivering slightly in the cold air. It hadn't been hard to get out of the hospital wing; no one had imagined that she would go anywhere. Now she watched her note being carried across the darkening sky by one of the school's owls and disappearing into the dark. Her old friend Dean would find it on his desk on Monday morning, when he showed up to work in the Aurors' offices. She smiled and turned to carefully descend the narrow stairs that encircled the Owlery. Soon everything would be right again.


	23. In Which There Is Latin

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

_In Which There Is Latin_

 

 

Noon. Sunday. Harry and Draco were lying in the tall grasses of the fields around the Great Lake. It was one of those perfect late September days, when the sun makes one last brilliant appearance before autumn fully sets in with its overcast skies and lengthening shadows.

The two men were half-dozing in the weak sunlight, just warm enough to not want to move. Draco had no books with him for once; they'd never asked, of course, but he suspected that Madam Pince would not approve of them taking their research outside of the nice, dry walls of the castle. No, after several hours in the cavernous library vault, they had left the books for a short break, unable to bear sitting inside the stone chambers of Hogwarts on such a day.

Draco opened his eyes to mere slits and watched the Ravenclaw Quidditch team practising over the pitch, a good fifty metres away. He thought about Quidditch practice and he rolled up on an elbow and looked at Harry next to him, apparently asleep. He watched the wind flutter through that thick black hair, revealing teasing glimpses of the famous scar and then hiding it again. His gaze fell down to Harry's full lips, now loosely parted and begging for a kiss, but so often pressed together in wary distrust.

Draco suddenly spoke in the thick, sunlit silence. "So you're afraid of me getting my magic back?"

Harry stiffened and Draco knew then that he hadn't been asleep at all. He watched as Harry's pink tongue darted along his lips nervously. He saw Harry's lower lip trembling almost imperceptibly and was watching that delicate motion with such fascination that he didn't immediately notice when Harry opened his eyes and looked up at him with that shocking green stare of his.

"You know how you used to hate me?" he asked in an odd voice. "I think I'm rather afraid of that happening again."

Draco considered that for some time, mulling over all that it implied. "So you're afraid that if I get my magic back, that I'll hate you." He frowned and asked seriously, "Do you think that I hate you now?"

Harry felt his cheeks burn; after all, he could feel the nearly magnetic pull between them even now--especially now. "No," he whispered.

"Do you think this is all some sort of act?" Draco continued insistently. "Do you think I'm just using you to get my magic back again?"

Harry felt like a child being scolded, and he admitted in a small tone, "No."

Draco looked at him intently across the short distance that separated them. "Then why do you think that would change if I were able to use magic again?"

"I don't know," Harry sighed unsurely. "I don't know. I guess I just assumed that you would go back to your old friends--back to your old ways."

The blond's eyes fell away and his lips twisted into a strange smile that made Harry suspect that Draco was angry. Draco said, "So you're afraid that if I were free to be with anyone that I wouldn't choose you."

Draco was looking down at him seriously now and Harry felt like he couldn't look away. He hated doing it, but he asked, "Would you?"

Draco's pale lips twitched, showing a hint of a smile. "Let me make some things clear," he said, as he rolled on top of Harry, holding himself up on his hands.

"Malfoy!" Harry exclaimed, looking about nervously. "We're in the middle of the bloody grounds!"

"And I don't care," Draco said flatly. "As I was saying, then." He stared straight down into Harry's scandalised face. "First of all, 'go back to my old friends'? How many people do you think I know who haven't either a) declared undying hatred for me, b) been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban, or c) died horribly?" Harry swallowed hard, cowed into silence, and Draco continued to say, "There's none of 'my sort' left any longer.

"As for going back to my old ways..." Now even the hint of a smile was gone. "Potter, I haven't changed." He could see that Harry wanted to protest but he silenced him, almost angrily. "No, I _haven't_. The way you _see_ me may have changed, and even the way that I see you. But I'm still the same person that I always was. If I hated you now, I would still do everything in my power to make you miserable. And I would enjoy every moment of it." He stared hard at Harry. "If I see an opportunity that will benefit me, I'll still seize it, and if I have to trample over some people that I don't know or care about to do it, then that's fine with me. Anyone who is too weak or stupid to get out of my way gets what they deserve. I enjoy manipulating people. I like to watch bad things happen to stupid people. I'm still the same bastard that you met in Madame Malkin's twelve years ago."

Harry had gone white, despite the bright sunshine that still fell over them. He was staring up at Draco, his face strained, and he looked as if he didn't--or didn't want to--understand what he saw in that well-studied face.

"Now, let me tell you some things you may not know."

Draco watched Harry's pale face as he told him, "The days that I spend with you end with the only nights when I don't have nightmares about the things that have happened to me. The only reason that I hated you at school was because _you_ refused my friendship, when I offered it to you. If you had accepted it then, you would already know that I will do absolutely anything for those that I care about. Yes, I'm ruthless and cruel when I'm helping myself. But I'm even more ruthless and cruel to help those that I love, and I will destroy anyone for them--even myself--if I have to. If you had accepted my hand on that bloody train, we probably would have been best friends and you never would have known a more loyal friend."

Harry's eyes were as wide as saucers by this point and Draco almost smiled. "I was fascinated by you, _Harry Potter_ , by who you were. You were the first person I ever met that I _wanted_ to have around--not that I _had_ to have around, because our fathers were Death Eaters together or any other bollocks. I _wanted_ you to be impressed by me; I _wanted_ you to like me."

Staring up at Draco in complete dumbfounded silence, Harry's face was still white with shock, though of a different flavour. He knew he wasn't the world expert on relationships but--Draco had _wanted_ to be his _friend_?

"And the fact that I haven't changed _who I am_ means that I'm not going to 'change back' to anything. It means that what I feel about you--about you and me--is not going to simply change, based on whether I can use magic or not. And if you sent me away right now, I would exhaust every last shred of my Slytherin cunning to get back to you because--at _this_ moment, Potter--I can't imagine anyone else I'd rather be here with."

Harry's face had managed to change from deathly pale to flaming with embarrassment in just moments. He wanted to dig a hole and climb into it and hide--and at the same time, he didn't want to move even a millimetre away from Draco and his heart-stopping words.

"So, yes, Potter," Draco finished softly, leaning in so close that his long blond fringe brushed Harry's face. "I _would_ choose you." Then he grinned and he was Malfoy again as Harry had come to expect him. "At least, until you start boring me," he quipped and winked down at Harry.

Harry's chest felt so tight that he thought for a moment that his heart might have actually failed. Why should it? Why should he care so much? Malfoy had just reminded him that he was a bastard-coated bastard with bastard filling. And, after all, this was just some strange fit of lust. So why did he suddenly feel tears pricking at his eyes when he thought of the years they'd spent hating each other?

Draco pulled back, half laughing, "What now?" Then he looked closely at Harry, who was trying to look away, his eyelids falling to hide his eyes. "Are you _crying_ , you utter sop?"

"No," Harry denied, childishly and foolishly. He blinked several times, trying to hide the incriminating gleam in his eyes.

Draco watched all of this with his usual interest and asked, "Why would you cry?" He leaned closer and Harry flinched, scrunching his eyes shut tightly, only to feel Draco gently kiss each one.

"I wasn't crying," he insisted uselessly. "I was just thinking...what a waste it was. That we hated each other all those years."

Draco grinned and blew on his face, causing him to pop his eyes open in surprise. "Hating you, Harry Potter, has been more satisfying than loving anyone else could ever be."

 

 

 

Midnight. Sunday. Harry half woke, feeling a weight on his back and a strange tickling sensation on his skin. Again. " _Malfoy_ ," he moaned tiredly. "I thought I took away your damned pen."

A throaty chuckle answered him. "Then you should have known better."

Harry tried half-heartedly to displace the man sitting atop him and Draco scolded him sternly. "Sit still! You're only making it worse."

Groaning, Harry submitted. After all, now he knew where to get the ink remover if he needed to. For the moment, he relaxed and enjoyed the feel of Draco leaning over him, his breath warm on Harry's bare skin. Harry noticed that the man was whispering words, no louder than a breath. It sounded almost like a spell, but that couldn't be.

"... _da mi basia mille, deinde centum, dein mille altera, dein secunda..._ "

"What?"

"Shhh," Draco hushed him softly, and continued whispering the Latin words as he carefully wrote them in his neat script. Harry listened to the half-familiar sounds, recognising syllables here and there but unable to guess what Draco's message was.

The pen's light touch lifted and Harry felt the ink drying on his skin; it was an odd sensation, almost itchy. He was surprised when Draco next picked up his limp hand, turning it toward him and causing Harry to make a curious noise.

As Draco wrote three words in the exposed centre of Harry's palm, he said softly, " _Vivamus, atque amemus. Vivamus, atque amemus_."

Harry half turned, rolling over as far as he could and staring up at Draco in the flickering candlelight. Draco had obviously set up the candles that Harry had conjured for him after the night he'd been left in the dark.

"Draco," he said softly.

The blond laughed again and said, "Call me Malfoy."

Harry continued to stare up at him, painted in bronze by the moving light and shadows, and he repeated, "Draco."

Draco's laughing smile slowly faded and after several moments had passed, he leaned down to kiss Harry gently. Harry returned his kiss just as carefully, whispering once more, "Draco."

"Yes," he sighed into those giving lips. How long had it been since anyone had uttered his name in such an adoring way? He groaned, "Yes, Harry."

Harry dug his hands into Draco's silky blond hair, holding him down and close as he sprinkled kisses all over his face. The marker fell from Draco's fingers, forgotten, and he wrapped his arms around the man below him tightly. There were no more words that night.

 

 

 

Ten o'clock. Monday morning. The students had trooped dutifully into the history classroom and taken their seats. Then an odd silence had fallen--odd because they were usually not silent without threats or magic.

Draco smiled, imagining what Harry's expression must be like behind him. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," he said in a rather jolly tone. "If you are so inclined, I think we'll start in on our discussion of the split between Wizardingkind and Muggles. Who can get us started?"

The silence continued as the young Gryffindors looked at one another nervously. Who would dare admit that they'd done the reading?

The longer no one answered, the more no one wanted to be the first to break the silence. But, as they'd begun to expect, Draco didn't seem bothered at all by this reaction. He looked across them, catching eyes here and there and smirking knowingly.

"Well, it was because of the Muggles, innit," a young male voice piped up from the crowd of fidgeting students.

Draco pulled a curious face. "Do you mean to say that it was the Muggles fault that we split up?"

"Well, they started persecuting magic folk, innit. No wonder we buggered off," the same rowdy voice continued, greeted with a few scattered laughs.

Before Draco might have added another comment of his own, another student spoke out: "But they only started attacking wizards because some wizards had been messing with them in the first place. Muggle-baiting and all that." The girl who'd said this glared at the previous speaker, obviously not one of his fans.

Draco nodded, his eyebrows arched in consideration. "So it was provoked--then it was our fault that we split."

"No," a different voice burst out loudly, then its speaker clapped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment. Everyone was looking at her now and she mumbled through her fingers, "I mean, it's not fair that everyone should have been blamed just because of a few Dark wizards' stupid actions."

"Is it fair if everyone is instead blamed for failing to control those Dark wizards?" Draco asked them. "Isn't it the society's responsibility to keep its members in order?"

There was an awkward silence following his question, and finally someone said, "Well, that's what we have jails and things for, right?"

Draco's lips pressed together tightly for a moment, but then he reminded the students, "But there were no prisons in those days, no organised leadership or government among wizards. No Wizengamot, even. So who was to blame for those Dark Wizards' actions? Is the society to blame?" He looked at them slyly. "Surely someone must be to blame...right?"

Two students spoke over one another, one saying, "Well, yes--" and the other claiming, "No, that's not--"

They both broke off awkwardly.

Draco gestured magnanimously to his audience, saying, "We can all have our turns. First, who thinks that someone is to blame?"

Everyone was afraid to speak up now and Draco looked pointedly at the student who had originally started to say yes. The boy scrunched his face up, unable to get away from Draco's gaze, and said, "Well, aren't those Wizards themselves to blame?"

"So it's their fault that they are bad?" Draco grinned at his audience's obvious discomfort. "Some people are just born bad and that's it?"

"No, that's--" the student protested in frustration, "that's not what I mean. Just--they're the ones who made the bad decisions, right? So why should others be blamed for their decisions?"

"So decisions--and individuals--exist in a vacuum," Draco said, deliberately twisting the boy's words. "A person's situation and those around him have no effect on or responsibility for his decisions."

"Yes," the boy said firmly. Then, "No. I mean--yes." He frowned and leaned forward. "In the end, only that person alone makes the decision to do what's right or wrong, right?" Before Draco could make any infuriating interpretations, he continued, "Even if someone is pointing a wand at you, or threatening you, or whatever. You're still the one who makes the decision."

Draco smiled wryly and there was no joy in that mask-like expression. "Well, you'll be happy to know that the current government seems to agree." He looked over at the other student who had spoken up earlier, "Now, for our counterpoint--"

The door to the history classroom banged open and he broke off in surprise. McGonagall came striding into the room, followed by two men whose appearance made his blood run cold.

"Dean Thomas?" Harry exclaimed from behind him, jumping to his feet. "And--Neville Longbottom?!" His former house-mates had of course grown older over the past five years, but they were still immediately recognisable to him - even in their Auror robes.

"I'm terribly sorry to interrupt your class, Mister Malfoy." McGonagall spoke in that clipped tone that meant that she was being forced to do something she didn't wish to. "But these two insisted that you come with them immediately."

Draco appeared to have frozen on the spot and Harry stared at his rigid unmoving figure from behind. He quickly stepped forward and spoke softly, close to his ear, "Malfoy..." But he didn't know what to say.

Draco turned the few inches to meet Harry's concerned gaze and Harry was shocked to see his face. Draco's eyes were showing white all around his grey irises and his pupils were constricted to near pinpricks. In all their years, Harry had never seen him look this absolutely horrified. He looked like he was going to either vomit or pass out on the spot.

"Harry," Draco breathed his name, no louder than a puff of air from his bloodless lips. "Don't let them take me back there."

Harry's decision was made for him in that instant. He stepped in front of Draco, blocking the former Death Eater from all of the curious and suspicious stares. He looked searchingly at the two men that he'd shared a room with for six years.

"Neville, Dean, please--I'm sure this can wait," he said, looking meaningfully towards their avid audience of students.

Neville at least had the grace to look uncomfortable, but Dean Thomas' hard expression didn't ease in the slightest. "No, Potter," he said, distancing himself from Harry, "I don't think that it can."

Harry bit the inside of his lip. What should he do? What _could_ he do? He turned to look at Malfoy behind him, but this time Draco had no cleverly stinging remarks, no devil-may-care and damn-the-consequences plan. He still seemed to be nearly catatonic and Harry was baffled by it. "Malfoy," he hissed, feeling cornered, "I don't know what choice we have!"

If Malfoy had told him at that moment to pull his wand and curse their way out of Hogwarts, Harry would have done. But the blond remained silent and Harry noticed from the corner of his eye that the Aurors were drawing their wands.

" _Malfoy_ ," he whispered desperately. With his back turned and his eyes fixed on his terrified lover, he only heard the curse before it struck. " _Stupefy!_ " called Dean's cool voice. And then everything was black.


	24. In Which Not All Is Lost

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

_In Which Not All Is Lost_

 

Harry was ennervated in the Hospital Wing and immediately bolted upright upon the hard hospital bed. "Malfoy!" he exclaimed, looking madly at Madam Pomfrey. "Where've they taken him?!"

Pomfrey had drawn back in shock, and she was frowning at him as she said, "I believe that Mr Malfoy has been taken to the Ministry to answer some questions, though I don't know much about it. You should ask the Headmistress if you wish to know--"

But Harry wasn't waiting any longer. He'd seen where waiting had got him: stunned by a former friend and left alone in the Hospital Wing. He yanked his wand out and brandished it overhead, yelling out, " _Accio_ any damned broom that can fly!" Before he could even get off the bed, the large windows that filled the far wall of the Hospital Wing shattered, great shards of glass falling to the stone floor and covering several beds as well. Thankfully the beds were empty today. Over twenty brooms had come streaking into the large chamber, a number of them occupied by the shell-shocked members of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, who had been practising on the pitch several hundred meters away.

Harry grabbed the nearest unoccupied broom and leapt astride it. In some distant, sane part of his mind, he knew there was going to be hell to pay for this. But every other cell in his body seemed to be screaming out with the need to help Malfoy.

He shot out of the room faster than any of his witnesses had ever seen a broom go. As the last few panes of glass crashed to the floor, one of the Hufflepuff Chasers muttered, "Bloody _hell_ , but he can fly _._ "

 

 

 

The wind screamed past him as Harry flew more desperately than he had since the night he'd borne Dumbledore back to Hogwarts. Once again he was in danger of losing someone he cared about and depended on and _needed_. He couldn't accept that he had finally let someone into his life again only to lose him.

As soon as he had made it past Hogwarts' boundaries, he jumped from the broom, stumbling and nearly falling to his knees. He pulled his wand again as he pushed himself up and immediately apparated to the dank London street that held the one entrance to the Ministry that he knew of. Before the handful of downtrodden Muggles could wonder just where the man carrying the odd-looking broom had come from, he had ducked into the broken-down phone booth and disappeared again. Since few of the observers were entirely sober--and even fewer entirely in their right mind--they didn't think too much of this.

Harry tumbled out of the visitors' entrance and into the cavernous atrium of the Ministry. He noted distantly that the horrid statuary had been fully restored in the seven years since Voldemort and Dumbledore had nearly destroyed it while duelling and Harry had last stood in this place.

Now, clutching a silver badge bearing his name in one hand and his superfluous broom in the other, he looked around in wild confusion. People began to notice him. Then people began to notice just who he was.

A young witch scurrying past in official robes came stumbling to a stop. "Oh my word, you're _Harry Potter_." She clapped a hand over her mouth immediately, red with embarrassment. But she'd got his attention, for better or for worse, and Harry grabbed her by the shoulders, the broom banging into her side.

"The Aurors--" he snapped. "Neville and Dean--they brought Malfoy in for questioning. Where would they take him?"

The witched was dazzled into silence for a long moment. Harry Potter was holding her by her shoulders. He was asking about the most famous criminal since the war had ended and talking about Aurors she would never even dream of approaching. Her job at the Ministry mostly consisted of delivering tea and making duplicates of other people's work. She managed to squeak out, "I don't know!"

She saw Harry Potter's famous green eyes narrowing, and she quickly added, "But I can take you to the Auror Headquarters! They'll know!"

Harry nodded and released his vice-like grip on her. Infected by his urgency, she grabbed him by the arm and ran for the bank of elevators that lined the far wall, weaving through the crowds that always filled the Atrium. Harry kept pace with her without a word and when she shoved her way past the queuing wizards at the elevators, he quelled every last one of them with a fierce look. The nearest elevator's doors slid open and the witch dashed forward, dragging Harry behind her. A portly bureaucrat spluttered, and she snapped at him, amazed at herself, "And how many times have you saved the free world? You can wait your bloody turn."

The man's startled eyes turned to stare at Harry in shocked recognition and then the doors clanged shut. In the momentary quiet of the elevator, Harry remembered to ask, "Sorry. What's your name?"

"Matilda Bolger," she answered at once, meeting his intense eyes. "I work in the Ludicrous Patents Office."

Harry almost smiled for a moment as he looked down at her determined little face. "Thank you, Matilda."

She blinked. She felt as if she finally knew just why people spoke of Harry Potter the way that they did. He had a presence. When he looked straight at you with those unbelievable green eyes, the rest of the world seemed to fade, just a little bit, as if he--and by extension, you and the moment you were sharing with him--was more real than everything else around you. And when he thanked you, you felt as if you would do anything to earn those words, that sincere tone, and that precious gratitude again.

The elevator pinged at them and announced, "Level Two. Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Auror Headquarters, Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, Wizengamot Administration Services." Matilda tore her eyes away from Harry, flushing a bit, as the doors opened onto the harshly lit hall. She hurried out and down the corridor, glancing behind herself just once to confirm that Harry was following. They arrived in front of a set of double doors set with a large brass plaque that read "Auror Headquarters." Hesitating only long enough to take a deep breath, Matilda shoved the doors open.

A couple of curious faces rose from the nearby desks to peer at the door. This department rarely got visitors. Their whispers quickly drew more looks and within moments, a stocky figure stood up from a desk across the room. It was Neville Longbottom and he hurried towards the two, looking pained. His underlings watched avidly; they knew that he had worked with Harry Potter years ago during the infamous (within the Ministry, at least) Department of Mysteries Battle.

As he drew near, Neville held out his hand and said in an apologetic tone, "Harry. I'm so sorry we had to meet again under such unpleasant circumstances."

Harry eased ever so slightly and he took Neville's hand, giving it a firm shake. "I'm sorry about it, too, Neville. Please--where is Malfoy now?"

Neville glanced at the desks behind them, full of bored and eagerly eavesdropping workers. "Let's talk in the hall," he suggested, holding the door open for Harry and sparing Matilda a questioning look as she followed them out.

As soon as the door had shut behind them, Neville started explaining in a quiet tone. "You have to understand, Harry, that there is procedure that must be followed in these situations. Personally, I would have preferred to handle things differently, but the tip came to Dean first, not me."

"What tip?" Harry asked sharply. "That Malfoy was at Hogwarts? But that's been out for over a week."

"No," Neville said reluctantly. "A tip that Malfoy might be searching for a way to restore his magic." His compassionate eyes searched Harry's face. "You must know that the loss of his magic was the only reason he was released from Azkaban the first time."

Harry went still. "You don't mean..."

Neville didn't look away from Harry's pale face. "I'm afraid that Dean has taken full advantage of the law and chosen to suggest the strictest procedures. Malfoy has been taken back to Azkaban, and he may be held there for up to ninety days without being formally charged."

Harry swayed back as if he'd been physically struck. Matilda stepped up behind him, afraid he might actually collapse.

Azkaban. The prison the damned fools at the Ministry had reopened and repopulated with Dementors, all because they wanted to punish the war criminals with long, torturous lives. A clean death wasn't good enough for the Death Eaters. Going back there would bring out every bad thing that had ever happened in Malfoy's life, and Harry didn't know anyone--not even himself--who had been through as much as Malfoy had.

"You're going to destroy him," Harry whispered, looking up at Neville in shock. "You're going to _kill_ him. You know he won't be able to survive the Dementors without his magic."

"I know that," Neville agreed. "And I want you to know that I'm doing everything I can to get him out for questioning as soon as possible."

Through the haze of his panic, Harry muttered, "I would've thought you'd hate Malfoy at least as much as Dean. Why would you try to help him?"

Neville's broad face twisted into a grimace. "I was there the last time--when they questioned Malfoy under Veritaserum, five years ago." He looked at Harry bleakly. "I've seen some awful things in my job, Harry, but nothing that could ever come close to the things he described. Even without Dementors, I don't know how someone could live with those memories and stay sane."

Harry realised that in this horrible way Neville Longbottom knew more about Draco than he did. He murmured through bloodless lips, "Well, he is a raging alcoholic." He managed to ask, "How soon can I get in to see him?"

The Auror flinched. "You know there are no visitors allowed in Azkaban," Neville reminded him.

Gripping his hands into fists, Harry asked in pained frustration, "Then what am I supposed to do? Just go home and wait to hear that he's gone mad or...or..." He swallowed hard. "While I've been sitting on my hands and doing nothing?"

"No, but you should go home--or back to Hogwarts, actually, if you wish to avoid the press--and let me get back to doing my job for you." He put a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder. "I will owl you with every bit of news."

The look Harry gave him was not a pleasant one. His voice sounded hollow as he admitted, "I can't lose another person in my life, Neville. I've lost too many already."

"I know, Harry," the man who could have been the Boy Who Lived agreed. "But don't forget that you haven't lost everyone." He smiled awkwardly. "I'd like to think that we were friends once, too. Maybe when we get all of this sorted, you'll join me and some of the old guard for a drink. I'd really like it."

Harry realised he might like it too, but it was too unimaginable just now. He nodded absently for a moment, and then he said, almost an afterthought, "I'm sorry for just crashing in on you like this." He frowned. "You'll owl me? With anything, anything at all. Or if there's anything I can do..."

"I will, Harry." Neville shook his hand once more and turned to the almost-forgotten witch behind Harry. "Will you make sure he gets out of the Ministry without any trouble or--worse--any reporters?"

"Of course, Mr Longbottom!" she said smartly, and she drew Harry back towards the elevators with gentle insistence. Harry came along, still glancing back at Neville, who sent him a reassuring smile before stepping back into the Aurors' offices. Following the Ministry witch, Harry found himself back in front of the bank of elevators. Luckily no one else was around--most workers were in their offices in the middle of a Monday afternoon, after all.

Matilda reached out to call the elevator and she jumped in surprise when Harry's hand darted out and caught hers in a soft, precise grip, as if it were a snitch. She turned to him but he wasn't looking at her. As he stared unseeing at the wall to his right, Harry Potter said tiredly, "I'm not quite ready to go back yet. Is there some place I can go? Some place where I can sit down, and not be recognised?"

She thought for a moment, then brightened. "I think I know just the place!"

 

 

 

It took a long circuitous route of rarely used stairwells and empty halls full of closed office doors, but after about ten minutes, they were closed up in a tiny kitchenette on Level Seven and had not run into a single person. "This is where I make the tea, for my rounds," Matilda explained as she poured Harry a cup from the pot of Darjeeling she'd just prepared. "No one else ever comes in here--they probably don't even know this room exists."

She placed the cup in front of him on the narrow counter. "Cream or sugar?"

Harry graced her with another of his awkward, grateful smiles. "This is fine. No, this is just great. Thanks."

She beamed. He asked with belated concern, "Are you going to be in trouble, being away all this time?"

Matilda almost giggled as she explained, "No one will notice a thing. A grunt like me? They'll all just assume that I'm off running someone else's errands or something."

Harry wrapped his hands around the hot mug of tea and said, "Well, thank you, for all of this." He brought the mug to his lips and then paused. "I just can't face going back yet--it feels like giving up somehow."

The witch chewed on her lip for a moment, and then she dared to give her opinion to Harry Potter on his personal life. It was like telling the Minster of Magic himself just what she thought of his policy on Muggles. "It's not giving up," she said. "There's really nothing more you can do right now, short of storming Azkaban."

He didn't immediately agree and she realised that, while anyone else would know it was a joke, Harry Potter might actually consider storming Azkaban prison. She said more shrilly than she meant to, "Which would be a bad idea!"

Harry was jolted back to the present and his lips quirked into a small smile. "I'll try to resist any urges." But then he fell into that dark silence again.

Matilda looked nervously at the teapot. She spoke in its direction. "Look, I don't know anything about you or this Malfoy character. I'm just an office worker, right? But I _am_ sure that if you and this Malfoy are as good of friends as you seem, that he'll know you're doing everything you can to help him. And I think that--even in a place like Azkaban--or, I don't know, _especially_ in a place like Azkaban--that he'll feel better, knowing that."

He looked up at her, startled, and when she happened to glance up from the teapot, she caught his piercing green eyes. She looked down again, mumbling, "I mean, I'm sure I would..."

"Thank you, Matilda," he said, then laughed at himself. "That's all I seem to be able to say, isn't it?" He fell silent and looked down at the mug in his hands. His eyes caught a dark smudge and he turned his right hand so that his palm faced him. In the middle of it were the three words Draco had written the previous night. Harry swallowed hard.

"Oh!" Matilda had noticed his distraction and followed his eyes to the words on his hand. " _Vivamus, atque amemus_ ," she read the words aloud in a reverential hush.

"Do you know what it means?" Harry asked.

She was flustered. "Oh, er, well, it's Catullus, isn't it? 'Let us live, and let us love'... right?"

As soon as she'd said it, Harry recognised the obvious Latin roots, though he never would have known their inflections. Viv. Amor. He wished he'd been the one to leave Draco some message, where he'd gone. He buried his face in his hands, feeling that emblazoned palm pressed against his cheek. Before Matilda could feel even more alarmed, though, he dropped his hands again to reveal a determined expression. "That's right," he said fiercely. "And I'm going to fix this. Let us bloody live, indeed."

 

 

 

Matilda had even managed to find an official Floo gate in some back office that was almost never used, and so Harry was able to Floo back to the History rooms at Hogwarts without any further complications or attention. He had thanked the witch one last time and disappeared into a rush of green flames, carrying his stolen broom at his side. Matilda watched Harry Potter go and, thinking to herself that no one would ever believe the day she'd just had, she went back to her usual small life.

Harry stumbled out of the dusty fireplace in the disused offices of the History Master. He really did hate Flooing. He tried to knock some of the soot from his person, but when he had finished banging around with that, the silence was complete and heavy.

He walked slowly to the door and opened it, looking out onto the empty lecture hall where he'd stood that morning with Malfoy. He could see the teacher's desk which Draco had been leaning on the last time Harry had seen him. But the room was empty now.

Carrying the broom with him, Harry left the History rooms in their silence and headed for the Hospital Wing. The windows had all been repaired already, of course, but that didn't matter. He apologised to Madam Pomfrey for his earlier behaviour and while she still wasn't pleased with him, she softened a bit in appreciation of his coming to apologise in person. Next he headed back to the main entrance and from there he Banished the broom back to where it had come from. Hands empty again, he started tiredly climbing the moving staircases of Hogwarts.

When he arrived, he stood blankly in front of the phoenix statue that guarded the Head's office. Long gone were the days when he had known Dumbledore's passwords like they were his own. Now he struggled to remember the evening when he and Malfoy had stood here with McGonagall. He'd already begun to notice Malfoy at that point, so he'd been staring at Draco in his form-fitting Muggle clothes rather than paying attention to what McGonagall had been saying. But he remembered them bantering about sweets or something...

"Mars bars," he muttered to himself, then he recalled the phrase: "Deep-fried Mars bars!" He waited a moment, pondering the possibility that the Headmistress might have changed her password. But then the statue began to move with a loud grinding noise and the revolving stair appeared before him. He stepped onto it and allowed it to carry him up to the office in the tower above.

He was only half-surprised to see Hermione standing in that office and holding the door open to him expectantly. "Harry!" she cried. "Is it--are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he muttered, "though I can't say the same for Malfoy right now." He brushed past her and stopped in front of McGonagall's desk. "Professor McGonagall, I'm sorry for causing a disturbance earlier in the Hospital Wing, and I'm sorry for the trouble that Malfoy and I have brought to the school. I'll understand if you want me to leave, but I would like to say here a bit longer, if you'll allow it, to find a way to help Malfoy."

She returned his look gravely. "Then is Mr Malfoy...?"

"Yes," Harry confirmed her suspicions, "they've taken him back to Azkaban."

She looked at the heavy wooden desk that had served so many before her and nodded. "Then I am as responsible as you, Mr Potter, for where he is now. I allowed him access to our prized vaults, never imagining it would come to this." She caught Harry's hard eyes. "Of course you may stay. And though I can't promise much, if there is anything I can do to help, you must ask me."

Harry nodded, but his expression didn't ease at all. "Thank you, Professor McGonagall."

She sighed. "I suppose I'll have to ask Mr Filch to watch the History classes again. I'd begun to hope Mr Malfoy might be with us for a while."

Harry felt a hollow ache in his chest, as he felt Draco disappearing from Hogwarts just as suddenly as he had first arrived. "If it is any help," he said, "I can at least watch his classes. It would make me feel a bit less useless as I wait to hear from the Ministry."

"Yes." McGonagall looked at him in a considering way. "That would be fine."

"Then if you'll excuse me," he said flatly. McGonagall waved him away, suggesting that he get his rest. Hermione watched him step onto the stairs, knotting her hands together. She made her excuses to McGonagall and dashed down the stairs after him.

"Harry!" She ran after him in the empty corridor. "Harry, wait!"

He paused but didn't turn around. His mask of composure was near the breaking point. "Hermione, I've got some things I'd like to do, and then I think I'll do as McGonagall said and get some rest. I'll talk to you tomorrow, if you don't mind."

Hermione flinched back from his coolly polite tone. She was aching to know what had happened, but she agreed in a weak voice, "Of course, Harry. Any time you want to talk..."

He didn't say anything more but headed off to the staff quarters in silence. Hermione watched him go helplessly.

 

 

 

Alone in the History professor's rooms, Harry slowly undressed. He hung his jacket back in the wardrobe where the rest of Draco's clothes hung and paused there for just a moment, before turning away. He left the jeans and shirt he'd been wearing on the floor for the house elves and walked into the bathroom, muttering the charm to bring the lights on. They sprang to life as he stared at himself in the mirror for some time. His body was ropey and though he didn't cut such a clean figure as he had as a teenager, when he'd practised Quidditch for hours on end, he was still in all right shape. He did look pale, though, especially under the bright magical lights. He stared at his own face intently, wondering how he must look to others. He wondered what Malfoy saw when he looked at him.

As he turned his head from side to side, his vividly green eyes never left their mirror reflection. Finally he dared to bring one shoulder forward and twist his body away from the mirror. He caught the first glimpse of the writing on his back. There was more than he'd expected. Swallowing hard, he went into the front room and got a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill from the desk there. He stepped back into the bathroom's harsh lights.

Craning his head to read the mirrored script on his back, Harry tried to copy Draco's words. He couldn't approach the other man's elegant handwriting but he did the best he could to copy all the neat words that ran from his left shoulder blade down into the small of his back before arching back up to encircle his right shoulder blade, like a strange pair of wings made out of ink and Latin.

When he had finished, he drew an unsteady breath and walked again to the front room, muttering " _Nox_ " behind him as he went. He sat at the small writing desk and held his wand over the paper. He whispered one of the translating spells that Draco had made him learn for their research and immediately English lines began to appear under his shaky handwriting. He read them once, and then again. Then he stood up, picked up Malfoy's enchanted decanter, and went to bed alone. 

 

_Quaeris, quot mihi basiationes_

_tuae sint satis superque._

_Quam sidera multa, cum tacet nox,_

_furtivos hominum vident amores:_

_tam te basia multa basiare_

_vesano satis et super Draco est._

_Da mi basia mille, deinde centum,_

_dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,_

_deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum._

_Dein, cum milia multa fecerimus,_

_conturbabimus. Ita repeto iterum, ateque iterum._

 

_You ask me how many of your kisses_

_must I have before I will be satisfied._

_As many as the stars that, when night is silent,_

_watch the secret love affairs of men._

_When you give me that many,_

_then will your dragon be satisfied._

_So give me a thousand kisses, and then a hundred,_

_and another thousand, then a second hundred,_

_and give me still another thousand, and a hundred._

_Give me until the thousands become so many_

_that we lose count, so that I can ask you again, and again._


	25. In Which Stories Are Told

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

In Which Stories Are Told

 

Neville Longbottom had been true to his word and when Harry showed up for breakfast the next morning, looking a bit wan, there was an owl waiting on the high table. The bloody thing was pecking at the ham and annoying Professor Vector something fierce, as he was the only other staff member to be breakfasting at such an early hour. It was only half-six, after all. Harry hadn't been able to sleep.  
  
Wondering distantly just what sort of shift they had poor Neville on, Harry plucked the tightly rolled note from the owl's leg and shooed the tetchy bird away. He unrolled the scrap of parchment and then understood just why the bird seemed so ill-tempered and peckish--it was dated the night before.  
  
Harry dropped into a chair several feet from Vector and read the note through. Basically, Neville hadn't been able to do a whole lot of anything so far, or so it seemed to Harry. He said he was researching past cases to try to provide any sort of precedents for Malfoy and that he'd petitioned to get Malfoy pulled out of Azkaban for some 'preliminary questioning', but that the higher-ups didn't seem in any rush. He promised to continue sending Harry updates, but with only news of this calibre, Harry wasn't even sure why he should bother.  
  
He let the note fall to the table and leaned back in his chair. It'd been nearly twenty hours since Draco had been taken from Hogwarts. Even if he figured in several hours for transport and processing, Draco had probably been within the walls of Azkaban for at least fifteen hours. The longest Harry had ever been in the presence of Dementors was less than thirty minutes and that was with his Patronus keeping them at bay. What could Malfoy be going through, this very moment, as Harry was sitting in front of a lavish breakfast spread, under the bright morning sky that shone through the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling?  
  
Harry pushed his plate away, deciding he'd lost his appetite. He noticed the unfurled newspaper lying next to Professor Vector's elbow and asked, "Would you mind if I...?" He gestured towards the paper and the Arithmancy professor handed it to him without a glance.  
  
Thinking that it was perhaps the first time he'd ever spoken to the professor, Harry realised that he should probably at least have introduced himself or something--but honestly, who didn't know just who Harry Potter was? He was startled when the dour-looking man pushed back his chair with a screech and stood. He paused for a moment, then spoke in a deep, dolorous voice. "Shame about the Malfoy boy. He was one of my better students." Then he walked away, letting the side door fall shut heavily behind him. Harry stared after him, glad he'd never been in Vector's class himself.  
  
Sighing tiredly, he turned to the paper. Of course Draco was front page news. There was even a bit on Harry, since they'd been so recently linked in the news. Luckily, though, it seemed that word of Harry's wild entrance into the Ministry yesterday was being suppressed so far. Harry didn't take much note of the words on the paper, instead he was staring at the Wizarding photo of Malfoy. It had been scowling when he'd first turned the paper towards himself, but then it had noticed Harry and begun cavorting about energetically, making rude gestures and trying to either make him angry or make him laugh--Harry wasn't sure which. When Harry didn't respond in either fashion, the photo Draco sighed, blew his hair out of his eyes, and looked bored. He started examining his tiny, printed hands.  
  
Harry still hadn't made it past the first page by the time that the other staff members began arriving. He did look up when he heard the side door open again but he immediately wished he hadn't. Of course it would be just his luck that the lone teacher to join him as he sat at the empty high table was Marianthi Fotiadis.  
  
"Oh!" She exclaimed aloud when she saw that they were the only two present. She naturally took the seat right next to Harry and asked him brightly, "What are you doing up and about so early, Harry?"  
  
"Couldn't sleep," he said shortly, hoping she would notice his foul mood and leave him alone to stare moodily at Draco's photo in the newspaper in peace.  
  
"I had to be up for the sunrise, to calibrate the seeing crystals for my fifth years today," she explained in a cheery tone and without any prompting, taking no heed of Harry's silent ire. She noticed the newspaper in front of him and took the opportunity to lean across him, her warm body pressed against his arm, under the guise of reading the paper. Her cheeks seemed a bit flushed as she said, "Oh, _yes_. I heard yesterday that your friend was taken to the Ministry." She looked up at him from this close distance. "I'm so sorry."  
  
When Harry's only response was a grimace, she laid a soft hand on his knee. "If you ever want to talk... I know you two were close..."  
  
Something inside Harry seemed to snap. "Yes, we were," he bit out between gritted teeth. "So 'close' that we were sleeping together."  
  
Marianthi's dark eyes darted about as she tried to think of an alternative meaning for the English words. "You were..."  
  
"Come now," Harry said cruelly, "We stay together in the History master's room and there's only one bed, of course. What did you think our relationship was?"  
  
"You mean, that you're--but you couldn't be..." She stared at him, her dark eyes like black marbles in her pale, shocked face. She whispered disbelievingly, "Are you...?"  
  
"Well, obviously!" Harry exclaimed, feeling as if he might laugh--or cry.  
  
Marianthi pulled back from Harry and leaned against her high-backed chair limply. She mumbled numbly, "I understand. I mean, I have a cousin who is--I just never imagined that you might be..."  
  
Harry had finally got rid of his unwanted suitor, but--he was realising as Marianthi moved away and the strange madness receded--he may have just created a far uglier problem. His face was suddenly serious again. "Oh...er, please don't feel bad about it. No one knows, after all. We're, er, very private. I only wanted to tell _you_ , to...to apologise for Malfoy's behaviour. The way he strung you along. All that nonsense." He winced at his own babbling. "So please, don't mention it to anyone else."  
  
Marianthi still looked lost in thought, but she at last said, "Yes, I understand. Of course not." Her eyes flicking in Harry's direction, she reached out for an enchanted flagon of coffee and poured herself a cup. She ate quickly, and though other professors started arriving and engaging in their normal morning chatter, she rushed off without exchanging more than a half-dozen words with anyone.  
  
Harry silently berated himself. He'd just been so eager to get rid of the witch and make her stop talking to him about Draco. Now she was shocked and he had no idea what she she might do next--or who she might tell. All he knew was the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him that, once again, he'd done something stupid.  
  
He felt useless without Malfoy around to stop him from making a fool of himself, or to make fun of him when he did so anyway and make him at least laugh at himself.  
  
Maybe he should just invade Azkaban, he thought hopelessly. What were the chances that the Ministry, even after their maximum ninety days, would just let Malfoy go free?  
  
But then again, that was probably another of those idiotic ideas that Malfoy would have put a stop to--telling him that he'd only end up in Azkaban as well, or else Kissed, and what bloody good would that do anyone? Gritting his teeth, Harry resolved to do as that snippy little voice in his head told him. The only way he knew to get through the next several days was to do what Malfoy would do. He wouldn't let anyone see how much he was hurting, he wouldn't loosen his icy control on himself, and he would drink profusely.  
  
  
  
  
Still burning with his fresh determination, Harry went to the History classroom alone. He was surprised to see the whole class already assembled, but managed to act aloof, or so he thought. The students all looked at him doubtfully and someone yelled, "Where's Malfoy?"  
  
"Mr Malfoy," Harry corrected the girl reproachfully, "is away from Hogwarts, so I'll be taking your class today." There was a dark murmur from the crowd and Harry made a mental note to tell Malfoy, if he ever got the chance. Not only were the students for the first time disappointed to have one of their teachers disappear, but they were more interested in having Malfoy standing in front of them than Harry Potter. What changes a week could bring.  
  
"Now then," Harry said bluntly, taking up Draco's usual position on the empty teacher's desk. "I may have more first-hand knowledge of Dark Lords than anyone else alive, but I know fuck-all about any history before Grindelwald, so I hope some of you have done your reading."  
  
He wasn't as insidiously charming as Malfoy, but thanks to their years of shared experience, he could at least stare just as mercilessly and unrelentingly. Eventually, a student raised a hand and class began.  
  
The day dragged on like that: Harry stumbling his way through the history classes and feeling keenly alone every time another group of students trooped out and he was left on his own in the large, shadowy room. After the last class for the day was finished--a particularly awkward two hours, since it had been a NEWT level class--he trudged back down to the Great Hall. He hadn't bothered to go down for lunch, but now his empty stomach was urging him to brave that bright atmosphere. As soon as he stepped through the doors, though, and was awash in the din of chattering voices and chiming silverware, he knew he'd made a mistake. This wasn't where he wanted to be.  
  
He stepped back but it was too late; Hermione was waving at him furiously and it would be impossible to pretend he hadn't seen her. He slunk over and slid into the chair she'd kept open for him. He noticed Marianthi looking in his direction and he avoided her eyes.  
  
Hermione jogged his elbow, catching his attention. "Harry, how are you doing? You just rushed off at breakfast and then you never even came to lunch. I was beginning to wonder if you'd run off again..." She looked worried that he might try something foolhardy.  
  
Staring blankly at the food in front of him, he reassured her--very unreassuringly--that he wasn't planning to storm Azkaban or anything of the sort. "I may not be great at being a functioning adult," he said bleakly, "but I do at least know that I can no longer do things like invading the Ministry and expect that Dumbledore will be around to save me or that the Ministry will shrug it off in light of Voldemort." He looked down at the palm of his hand, where something seemed to be written, and told her, "I'm the best shot Malfoy has of getting out of that place. I know that. But only so long as I have the public's good opinion, and if I go about acting like a deranged criminal, then I'll be useless to him."  
  
Hermione was staring at him in surprise. In the past two weeks, she had felt that he was the same boy she had known as a girl, and she had felt as if he'd become someone strange, who she wasn't sure she liked. But who now was this serious, thoughtful man, who was doing the best he could in a situation that obviously pained him? She felt like hugging him, there in front of the whole Hall, as she searched his sad expression. She settled for squeezing his arm warmly, though, and saying, "For what it's worth, I think you're doing the right thing. And I'm proud of you for doing it."  
  
He didn't look pleased, though, as he looked sideways at her. "It doesn't mean I like it, though," he told her softly, and she could see dark horror and despair in his eyes. She wondered if she would be able to stand it. If their roles were reversed and it was Harry in Azkaban, would she be able to hold herself back? Or was she still too much of an impetuous Gryffindor, following her heart and forgetting her mind? This cold pragmatism of Harry's--it didn't come from Gryffindor. She thought she knew where it came from. "You are doing the right thing," she told him again, "and I think Malfoy would agree. He's very logical, when he wants to be, that Slytherin of yours."  
  
Harry knew she was right. He'd told himself the same things before. He knew that Draco would tell him not to antagonise the Ministry. But he also knew that Draco would never follow his own advice. Hadn't he said that he would do anything for the people he cared about? Hadn't he become a Death Eater to protect his mother? Hadn't he suicidally gone after the Horcrux at Snape's behest? Of course he wouldn't stand by while someone he cared about was going through psychological torture. He was as hotheaded as a bloody Gryffindor sometimes.  
  
Harry pushed his chair back and said in a choked tone, "I'm sorry. I'm not hungry." Then he practically ran for the side door.  
  
In his mind, he cursed the wards at Hogwarts that prevented him from apparating on the spot. He wanted to be somewhere far from here; he didn't know or care where. No, that was a lie: he knew exactly where he wanted to go, but he couldn't--he shouldn't--right?  
  
His long, furious strides brought him back to the history professor's room and he threw the door open. There was no one there, of course. He slammed the door behind him and stalked into the bedroom. He pulled the doors of wardrobe open with such force that the wood creaked and then he stood a moment, staring at Malfoy's clothes in front of him. He reached out and grabbed an armful of the clothes, yanking them from their hangers. Then, sinking to the ground, he clutched the soft bundle to him tightly, inhaling the familiar scent that clung to Malfoy, and finally letting his hot, frustrated tears fall.  
  
How had it come to this? A month ago he could never have imagined that he would be back at Hogwarts, back among Wizarding folk, and sick with worry about Draco Malfoy, of all people. He almost wished it had never happened. But he still remembered how being with Draco had felt. Clutching at the empty clothes in his arms, he fought to remember every moment. The need to recapture those feelings, to have Malfoy back in his life, was the only thing he could cling to now.

 

 

 

The next morning brought another disappointing owl from Neville and another day of wasting time with classes. He was being more proactive--seeking out Hermione's help in researching magical law--but he looked worse than ever. The first day after Draco had been taken away, he had merely looked wan and ill-rested. After the second day, his skin was a chalky white and his eyes were sunk in dark circles. Hermione began hounding him to eat more at meals, but there was little she could do to force him to sleep at night. When the third day dawned and no owls came from the Ministry, Harry had trudged out of the Great Hall without even pretending to eat.  
  
When Friday afternoon arrived and marked four full days that Malfoy had been in Azkaban, Hermione scolded Harry: "You _have_ to eat something. I will personally have Pomfrey hospitalise you if you don't stop your bloody moping." She watched hawkishly as Harry picked up a roll and started absently pulling off small pieces to put in his mouth. She hardly blamed him, though. Malfoy was in Azkaban, and with no magic to protect him; for all they knew, he might already be irreparably damaged.  
  
Chewing mindlessly, Harry fought to swallow the bread that tasted like ashes in his mouth. It was Friday afternoon. _Friday afternoon_. How was he going to make it through the weekend? Two whole days with nothing else to occupy him. Over forty-eight hours to imagine what Malfoy must be experiencing, to wonder if he would ever see him again, to wonder if he would even be the same.  
  
He stood up abruptly. "I'm going for a walk." And then he strode away from the table, without even waiting for any sort of response. Hermione gaped for a moment, then jumped up after him. His longer legs ate up the long paths of the castle corridors, and he just kept walking faster. Hermione had to practically jog to catch up with him.  
  
She called out to him breathlessly, "Harry! _What_ are you doing? You know you can't go to him! What--are you going to apparate to the shores of Azkaban, thinking that the Dementors will just welcome you with open arms? Well, they will--open arms, and open mouths, because you'll be Kissed, you bloody fool!" Her tone grew angrier and angrier as she struggled to keep with him. She didn't even particularly care for Malfoy, but even she was frustrated with the situation and feeling pushed to her limits.  
  
Pushing herself into a run for a moment, she managed to reach out and grab Harry by the arm, spinning him around to face her. "Harry!" She berated him, shaking him slightly, "You _can't go there_."  
  
He knew it. He knew it but he hated it and he tore himself away from her, loping across the grounds towards the gates of Hogwarts and the limit of her wards. He had no clear idea of what he was going to do once he crossed those borders, but he couldn't stand sitting still. He needed to do something, even if it amounted to nothing more than an empty gesture.  
  
The gates were in sight and he was about to break into a full run when someone appeared from the other side, rushing towards him just as urgently. He stumbled to a halt and his knees seemed to give out, driving him down to the ground. Hermione ran up behind him and stopped, bent over with her hands on her knees, breathing hard and staring up at the man approaching.  
  
Waving a large hand, Neville jogged up to them. Harry had gone almost green; was this good news or bad news? He wasn't sure his heart could take either. He let Hermione be the one to speak up and she called out, "Neville! What're you doing here? Have you heard anything...?"  
  
Neville slowed to a walk as he drew near, but he was shaking his head slightly. "I can't believe how lucky I am to run into you two here. I was dreading trying to sneak into the school. The Ministry shouldn't hear that I was ever here." A couple of feet from Harry, he stopped and looked down at the pale man. "I'm afraid I don't have good news."  
  
Harry swayed back as if struck and Neville hastened to add, "I mean, I don't have bad news either! I just don't have much news to speak of. That's what I'm here to talk to you about." He squatted down and spoke quietly to Harry, and Hermione, who leaned closer.  
  
"Look, I have some clout in my own department, but not many people want to see Malfoy get out again. It didn't sit well with any number of folk the first time. I've been sending requests to get him out for questioning, but the higher ups are obviously happy to put my requests at the bottoms of their piles." He peered at Harry, whose eyes were hidden by his overgrown fringe. "There's no support for Malfoy now and I can't do much more than I already am."  
  
He winced and said the words that he knew Harry would hate. "I need you to go public for him, Harry. Malfoy needs you to."  
  
Harry twitched and he did finally look up at Neville. "What do you mean?" he asked in a numb voice.  
  
Neville slapped his thighs and spoke more confidently now. "I'm suggesting a press conference. We call the Prophet, or any other paper you want, and offer them the juiciest scoop of the decade--the first interview with Harry Potter in nearly a decade."  
  
He saw Harry grimacing and knew how much his old school friend hated the press, so he pushed him gently. "I know it'll be a pain, Harry, but we need you to paint your side of the story. Tell how Malfoy helped you during the war, how he's been helping at Hogwarts, anything you can do to bring the public over to his side. If the public and press start to pressure the Ministry, they'll be a lot quicker to get this charade over with."  
  
"So you want me to tell them how we became...friends?" Harry asked in an odd sort of voice.  
  
Glad to see any sort of response, Neville nodded encouragingly. "Exactly. Anything to warm the public to Malfoy's side."  
  
Harry was silent for a long moment, staring down at the grass before him. Then he said quietly, "But you know more about what happened to Malfoy than I do."  
  
Neville swallowed hard and looked squarely at Harry. "I can't be linked to this in any way, you know that. And even if I could, it wouldn't be my place to tell strangers what Malfoy only told me under Veritaserum."  
  
"Could you..." Harry gnawed on his lip a moment. "Could you tell me? I'm hardly a stranger."  
  
The breath whooshed out of Neville as he looked at Harry's kneeling figure. He said sadly. "It's still not really my place. I think if Malfoy wanted you to know, he'd tell you." The Auror waffled for a moment and then he continued, "The one thing I can tell you is that he's already been punished enough. By himself and by the Death Eaters. But I think you already knew that."  
  
Harry stared at the ground. "Did they...did they..." He squeezed his eyes shut but he couldn't bring himself to say the words aloud. He knew Neville was right; if Malfoy had wanted him to know what the Death Eaters had done to him, he would have told him himself. Whether he was trying to protect Harry, who would surely blame himself, or whether he was protecting himself, by trying to hide the ugly things that been done to him, Harry felt like asking would be a betrayal of Malfoy's trust. He whispered, "Never mind. I know enough."  
  
Neville clapped him on the shoulder and looked to Hermione. "I can trust you to handle the rest?" he asked her, smiling ruefully. She nodded and he stood, brushing at his trousers unnecessarily. "Then I'd best be off. They'll have my head back at the office if anyone hears I was here helping with this." His eyes lingered on Harry one last time and he said quietly, "Do your best." Harry blinked and glanced up at him, and Neville gave him an awkward little smile. Then he was off again, jogging through the castle gates and then apparating away in an instant.  
  
"Okay, then," Hermione said briefly. "Let's get back to the castle. I still have one class this afternoon, but I'll send off an owl before that to arrange for the press." She dragged Harry to his feet and began propelling him back towards the castle. "Would you like to hold it here or down in Hogsmeade? We would have more control here, but we'd also need McGonagall's permission. And then we'll need to..."  
  
Harry barely heard a word, as they slowly made their way back to Hogwarts' safe walls. He was picturing Malfoy, in his imagination's hazy idea of a cell, and wondering if his awkward words would be enough to get him out.

 

 

Hermione had arranged everything and the next morning she came to the Great Hall early to get her copy of the paper. She wasn't surprised to see Harry sitting alone at the high table. In the quiet of the empty hall, they looked at each other for a moment, and then Hermione stepped forward. She took the seat next to him and he handed her the paper without a word. In the calm before the storm, she snapped the paper open and began to read.  
  
  
_**Mr Potter's Plea** **  
  
By Peter Lovejoy** _  
  
_I met with Mr Harry Potter in the History classroom at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As I sat down with arguably the most famous wizard alive, I felt indeed like I was experiencing a bit of history, but it didn't for a moment feel like a lecture._  
  
_Mr Potter is an interesting man, most curiously for his utter normalcy. If you didn't know his part in our history, you might simply walk by him in the street without giving him a moment's notice. Of course, his looks are arresting--his eyes are as green as rumour says and there is a knowledge in them that catches you if you happen to meet them. Yet he is a quiet and self-conscious man, obviously awkward being in the limelight, and the only time he forgets himself and smiles is when he talks of happier times._  
  
_I was lucky enough to hear about some such times from Mr Potter, who had requested to be able to speak out on behalf of his friend, Mr Draco Malfoy, who has been kept locked up in Azkaban this past week._  
  
_"We first met in Diagon Alley," Mr Potter tells me, with one of his private little smiles. "I thought he was awful. He reminded me of my horrendous cousin. He was the first wizard of my own age that I ever met--I'd been living with my Muggle relatives until then, after all." Mr Potter then laughs and for a moment he looks like what he should have been: a happy young man in the high days of youth. "He was self-absorbed and sneering, and I wished that I'd never have anything to do with him again, but you can see how that turned out."_  
  
_He tells me about their time at Hogwarts School, as Quidditch rivals and seemingly natural enemies. Gryffindors and Slytherins are not often known for their great love for each other, after all. "Still, in a way," he says thoughtfully, "we were always very important in each other's lives. If I caught the Snitch in a match, I would search out his face to see his expression. If I made a mistake in class, I knew he'd be around the corner to rib me for it. I think he felt very much the same. Everything we did was with each other in mind. That is, until Voldemort."_  
  
_In light of the Dark Lord's return, their rivalry and dependence on each other was pushed aside. "Of course, many people were close to Voldemort in many different ways. But we were especially entangled with him, and perhaps that's why we understand each other so well now. I was perhaps the closest person to Voldemort in many ways--we shared a link after he failed to curse me as a baby, which he had several times tried to take advantage of through Legilimency. I would have visions of the awful things he did. I had a part of him, a part of the monster who had killed my parents and so many others, living on inside of me, giving me abilities like being a Parselmouth and making me..." Now he breaks off suddenly, and it is several moments before he speaks next, telling Mr Malfoy's story this time._  
  
_"Malfoy ended up being closer physically to Voldemort than he could ever have imagined in his worst nightmares. He was of course raised in a family infamous for producing Dark wizards. His father was a Death Eater and I had often come face-to-face with him in confrontations with Voldemort. But by that time, Lucius had been locked up, captured during the battle at the Department of Mysteries. Voldemort expected Draco to take Lucius' place. I know that Draco was afraid for his own life, but more than that, he feared what would happen to his mother. I think he could see no possible escape, no one who would help him--everyone he knew and trusted was under Voldemort's sway. He was given the Dark Mark and then he was ordered by Voldemort to kill Dumbledore. We were both sixteen at the time."_  
  
_Mr Potter then revealed the truth of what had happened on the mysterious night that Albus Dumbledore died and both Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy ceased being regular schoolboys, if they had ever been regular at all. "The three of us were up on the Astronomy Tower. I'd been Petrified and Malfoy had disarmed Dumbledore, but he couldn't kill him. Malfoy would do anything to protect his mother, who Voldemort was using against him, but he still couldn't seem to bring himself to kill another person." Mr Potter paused, obviously remembering that painful night._  
  
_"You have to understand," he tells me, his lips now twisted into a sad smile, "that Malfoy is a bit soft, really. He was a rotter to me all our years at Hogwarts and he fought dirty and he knew more curses than any schoolboy rightfully should. But I don't believe he ever wanted to kill anyone. He loved his mother most in all the world, perhaps because she was the only person who ever showed him any love. I think at that time, desperate, he thought that any price would be worth her life. Yet he still couldn't force himself to kill for her at just sixteen. But before the end, he was forced to hurt people, to torture, to murder. And his mother was killed by Voldemort anyway, horribly, right in front of him._  
  
_"I know that the fact that he didn't want to do the things he did doesn't make them any less wrong or horrid or painful. But I don't know if anyone else understands how it feels to be forced to do such things, to be forced to kill, and to then live on with that knowledge." He looks at me and for the first time I see the full horror that haunts him, a man who was forced at age seventeen to kill for all our sakes._  
  
_Mr Potter talks briefly of his highly private journey to defeat the Dark Lord and of Mr Malfoy's assistance in that journey. "Severus Snape, who had endured more than anyone to protect both Malfoy and me, was finally tortured to death by Voldemort for his deceit. Before his death, though, he and Malfoy had worked out the final piece to the puzzle, the last tool I needed to have a chance of defeating Voldemort. He had..." He seems to search for words and finally says, "He had certain weaknesses."_  
  
_"Malfoy was sure to be Voldemort's next victim, after Snape had been revealed as a traitor. He could have run then. He could have tried to flee the country, as other Death Eaters had before him. But instead he came to me and put his life right back on the line. He helped me find the last tool I needed to go after Voldemort."_  
  
_But Mr Malfoy's good deed did not go unpunished. "He was captured by Voldemort," Mr Potter explains, looking grim. "And it was because he subjected himself to a curse that was meant for me. As a result, he lost his magic and was absolutely powerless against Voldemort and his loyal Death Eaters. They tortured him without end, until all of the Death Eaters were eventually rounded up by the ministry." It's difficult to imagine what Mr Malfoy must have gone through at the hands of the Death Eaters. Not many have survived to tell tales of such horrors. "But I think even that pales next to the emotional torture that Malfoy has put himself through," suggests Mr Potter. "I don't think he's forgotten for a day what he's done. He's punished himself every day for the past six years that he's survived._  
  
_"He was originally let out of Azkaban because of these two facts--that he had already been punished more than anyone could be expected to endure, and that he'd lost his magic and become virtually powerless. Recently he and I began researching ways to restore his magic, never imagining the consequences. Directly or not, I was the one who took his magic away from him. I was certainly the one who left him to be tortured. I thought if I could help make him whole again in any way that I would do it. I wanted to help my friend. But now he's been taken back to Azkaban and is being forced to relive every terrible, ugly thing in his life again and again."_  
  
_Mr Potter's control, which has been almost unwavering through his retelling of the horrors he has carried on his young shoulders, now begins to fail. His eyes are shiny with tears as he admits to me softly, "I'm afraid it might already be too late."_  
  
_Looking pained but desperate, he gives his final plea: "I don't think I've really asked too much of people. At least, I hope I haven't. I've mostly just always asked to be left alone. But once, nearly eight years ago, I asked for you all to believe me. To believe that Voldemort had come back and to prepare yourselves. Now, one last time, I'd like to ask you to believe me. You may believe that Malfoy doesn't deserve to get his magic back, but he doesn't deserve Azkaban. He has been punished enough. We've both been through enough. Please believe me when I say that he doesn't deserve this. Please let him go."_  
  
_These two men, who approached the war from opposite side, who chose different paths, but who now walk side by side. They set an example of the understanding that can reach across the hurts we've all experienced. Will their suffering and sacrifices go ignored? Will no one hear Mr Potter's plea?_  
  
  
Hermione finished the article and let the paper rest on the table. Glancing at Harry, she was at least relieved to see her friend manage a nervy little smile when he said, "Well, you were right about this Lovejoy fellow. He wrote up a right sob story, just as you said he would."  
  
"That is what he's known best for," Hermione agreed absently, glad that the journalist had followed the conditions of their offering him the interview. She had feared it would turn into another attention-grabbing gossip fest about Harry, but the man had managed to stick straight to Harry's quotes, only adding touches of melodrama for his loyal (and largely female) audience. "Now we just have to wait and see if Neville was right, and if we can spur the Ministry into some action.  
  
They both glanced towards the grey morning sky through the enchanted ceiling, seeing the small shadows of owls approaching in the distance. Swallowing hard, Harry murmured, "We might not have to wait all that long."


	26. In Which There Is Pain

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

_In Which There Is Pain_

 

Standing knee deep in letters, Harry said doubtfully, "You know I'm not sure this is what McGonagall had in mind."

The headmistress had of course asked Filch to sort through all of Harry and Draco's incoming owls when they'd first arrived, but the surly caretaker seemed to have taken that to mean throwing every last letter in a disused closet near the Owlery. There were fragments of exploded Howlers covering the pile like a dusting of red confetti.

Harry and Hermione had come to check on the owls they'd seen approaching the castle and had found the debris of the past two weeks. Having nothing else to do but wait for an owl from the Ministry or Neville, they had begun to pick through the pile half-heartedly.

"Here's a nice one," Hermione told Harry, waving a letter at him from where she was sitting among the rustling mass. "'My name is Doris... May not mean much to you, but I was so happy to read in the _Prophet_ that you seem to be well and living your own life... We're all so glad... Hope you can find as much joy in your own life as you have brought to ours...'" She shot a hopeful smile in Harry's direction, but he wasn't looking at her. He was reading through letters with a furrowed brow and she could guess that they were _not_ nice ones. Most all of the insulting letter were directed at Malfoy, not him, but Hermione was sure that made little difference to Harry right now.

She rustled unhappily through the top layer of letters, seeing if she could find any reactions to the morning's paper, such as they'd seen approaching earlier. She found a very strongly worded letter from a widow who wanted to let Harry know just what she thought of his defending a Death Eater, and she quickly shoved it deep down into the pile where Harry wouldn't see it. After several more letters, she finally found another one from that morning. She read through it and bit her lip, then passed it to Harry, not wanting to read it aloud.

Harry scanned the lines from an elderly wizard who told of how he'd lost his best friend in the war against Grindelwald. His darting eyes slowed and he began to read the letter seriously.

_I don't know you, and I don't know what you or Malfoy had to do in the war. But I remember when we were on those front lines and it became hard to say which side was good and which side was bad. In the frenzy of it all, my friend and I found ourselves doing horrible things--just as horrible as the things we were supposed to be trying to stop--and justifying them because we were 'right.' It's something that people who have never been in war can never understand._

_They may laud you as a hero, they may welcome you back, and then they forget you and return to their own small, peaceful lives--but they never understand the guilt and the knowledge that you carry within you. The things that you see on a battlefield and the things that you do to other human beings, these are never even dreamed of by the people who you save, and you begin to realise that these experiences have changed you into someone different from everyone around you._

_Sometimes the only people who can understand that and give you some peace are those who lived through it with you, who are just as affected as you. Having a friend who understands you is the most precious gift you will ever find in this life, even if you live as long as I have. I had such a friend once and I lost him in that terrible war, and I've never forgotten him. But even more so than the whole of my experiences in the war, he is the one loss that I cannot talk to other people about. I suppose I just miss my friend. I felt compelled to tell you about him, however. It's just the ramblings of a strange old man, but I feel as if you might understand._

_My friend was not perfect. He was never going to save the world. The world may not miss him--but I miss him and my life will never be the same because he is gone. I'm sorry to be so presumptuous but I suspect you are the same. I don't know what exactly I hoped to express to you in writing this letter, but I don't want you to give up. My friend died, but your friend is still alive. There is still hope for you. Hold onto it._

Hermione noticed the silence stretching on for far longer than it should take to read a single letter, and she looked at Harry from the corner of her eye. He was still staring at the letter, though obviously not reading. She chose not to say anything and continued sorting through the letters, placing the ones she thought worth keeping into one of the bags she'd conjured up and putting the rest of them into the other, much larger, bag she'd created.

She continued to sort silently for over ten minutes, the only sound in the small room the rustling of parchment letters, and a handful more owls dropped in before one of the ministry's sharp-looking black owls swooped in through the window with a self-important air. The bird flapped its wings powerfully in Harry's face, driving his hair back and making him look up in surprise as the old man's letter was blown from his hands. Moving as if in a daze, he held out his forearm for the owl to perch on and when it did so, he gently tugged the letter free from its feathered leg. With a shrill cry, the ministry's owl leapt away, leaving Harry with a set of red scratches on one arm and an envelope addressed to him in his other hand.

Hermione moved closer, watching impatiently as Harry continued to stare at the thick black lettering on the outside of the envelope. Finally she whispered, "Go on, Harry!"

He opened his mouth but said nothing. He moved as if to hold the letter out to her, but then he pulled it back towards himself and, lips pressed together, he hooked one finger under the envelope's flap and tore it open. The shaking in his hands was almost imperceptible as he unfolded the letter and read it aloud to Hermione.

"'Dear Mr Potter,'" he said in a strained voice, swallowing hard before he continued. "'You are hereby summoned to appear for questioning regarding your connection to Mr Draco Malfoy and your involvement in his recent actions. Your presence is requested at the Ministry of Magic immediately.'" He looked up at Hermione. "That's all it says."

Fighting not to show any alarm on her face, Hermione said as briskly as she could manage, "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go."

"You're coming with me?" Harry asked in surprise.

"Of course!" Hermione put her hands on her hips and glared at him, just as she had when they were mere teenagers. "You don't think I'd let you walk into that mess alone!"

A hint of a smile crept across his face and he started wading through the letters towards the door. "Let's go then."

 

 

They Flooed to the Ministry this time. Though Harry hated to travel by Floo, it was the quickest route, and he wanted to find out what was going on as quickly as possible. As soon as they stepped from one of the many, many large fireplaces that lined the Ministry's atrium, a number of Aurors rushed to meet them. They'd been scattered about the hall, watching the Floo grates closely. They seemed unsure what to do about Hermione, but two of them flanked Harry on either side, slapping firm hands onto his shoulders, while another searched his pockets and drew out his wand.

Luckily, Neville was not far behind the unknown Aurors. Unluckily, Dean was not far behind him. Harry looked from Neville's cloudy expression to Dean, standing behind the other man with unreadable eyes. He decided to direct his question to the whole group of tense Aurors in general. "What exactly is going on here?"

Dean spoke up, still apparently in charge of things. "Thanks to the spectacle you've made, we're having to wrap this mess up as quickly and quietly as possible. We'll be questioning both you and Malfoy today before deciding whether to take you both before the Wizengamot."

"Both..." Harry dared to look at Neville. "Does that mean Malfoy is here?"

Neville didn't give any signs of even understanding Harry's question, but Dean gave him an answer which sent his stomach plummeting. "Oh, he's here. At least, physically."

"What does that mean?" Harry snapped, trying to swallow the sick feeling in his throat. "Just what the hell do you mean by that?"

Dean only turned away, flicking his hand to gesture that his Aurors should follow him, and Harry was propelled deeper into the Ministry, Hermione striding beside him.

 

 

They arrived in a different area than any Harry had ever been in before. He gave no attention to where they were, though, and he simply let the Aurors push him along in whatever direction they chose, still wandless and powerless to fight them. He was somewhere else entirely; his heart was racing and every inch of skin on his body seemed to be prickling when he thought that Draco might be around any one of these corners--but his mind was furiously combating the possibilities that Dean's statement had given birth to.

Dean opened a door off of a hallway that looked like every other hallway to Harry, and the cadre of Aurors filed in, Harry and Hermione swept up with them. It was another hallway, with several doors leading off on each side. They were herded into one of these rooms and inside they found a nervous-looking young man. He exclaimed when he saw Dean. "Mr Thomas, sir! I've been sent from Superintendent Hornblower and he requests your presence _immediately_. There's a breaking case that he wants you in on."

Cursing under his breath, Dean shoved back past Harry and the others. He stormed out of the room ahead of the nervous young man, unable to ignore the summons from a higher-ranked officer. That left Neville as the most senior person in the room and he wasted no time at all. "Right then. Roberts, Singh, I'd like the two of you to patrol the exterior hall; no one comes near this wing but us. We can't afford any more cock-ups or leaks on this one, lads. Kirk, check on Malfoy and see that he's ready for questioning, then go down to headquarters and report that we have Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy all assembled, and that Ms Granger is here as well. Thewles, since Inspector Thomas left us without a word, I'll ask you to go after him and confirm if he wants us to wait for him or start the questioning at once. And ask Hornblower if he'll be needing any other help with that new case. And Kennedy, I'll ask you to fetch some tea. No reason we can't be civil about this whole thing."

As the lower Aurors filed reluctantly out of the room, Harry looked at Neville--but his friend's kind eyes were dark with warning. Only after the door closed after the last of his juniors did he start speaking, and then he spoke quickly and quietly.

"Hornblower is doing me, and you, a big favour by pulling Dean off for as long as he can. There's no case, but he's going to create as much confusion as he can. Lovely fellow. I'm relieved that they brought Malfoy out, but I know Dean wouldn't even let you near him, so this is the least I could do." He walked to the door and peeked out into the hall. Once he was sure all of Dean's Aurors had gone, he waved to Harry. "Come on!"

Harry followed at once, rushing after Neville as the bulky Auror hurried down the hall. They ended up in front of another door that was indistinguishable from the one they'd come from and every other door they'd passed on the way, but Neville seemed to know just which one it was. He nodded towards Harry expectantly, and Harry froze.

What was waiting on the other side of that door? Malfoy was right there, mere feet separating them, but was he same Malfoy who Harry had been so captivated by the past several weeks? Had Dean only been taunting Harry or had he been telling the truth? And even if Draco were somehow all right--would he forgive Harry for letting him be taken away, for leaving him in Azkaban?

Harry was more afraid of opening that door than he had been of facing Voldemort. Once he opened it, he would know if it was even possible for Draco to come back to him or if he was already too late. As long as he didn't open it, as long as he didn't know for sure, there was hope.

But Neville was standing there, risking punishment to give Harry this chance, this poisonous gift of knowledge, and so Harry had no choice but to reach out, turn the doorknob, and slip into the bare room where Malfoy was being held.

He pulled the door shut behind him and leaned against it, not daring to step further into the room. It was small and white and bare; there was a single white-topped table in the middle, with several metal chairs around it. In one of those chairs, wearing what looked like a set of white pyjamas, was Draco Malfoy, limp and staring blankly forward. His eyes slid to Harry but he showed no reaction. His lips were dry and bloodless and he looked as if he'd lost a stone in the past week, though that shouldn't have been possible. He blinked, bruised-looking lids hiding his red-rimmed eyes for a moment, and then he said softly, "I know my excuse for looking like shit, but what on God's green earth is yours?"

Harry sagged against the door and, as his knees gave out, he slid to the floor. Hysteria was bubbling up inside of him at the sound of Malfoy's low voice. It was _Malfoy_. This was the voice he'd missed in his ear. This was the presence that had left his life lacking.

"Seriously, Potter." The voice came again, and Harry closed his eyes, savouring every tone and imagining that he was listening to that bewitching voice anywhere other than here. "If you're supposed to be here to fucking save me, you're not making a very good show of it." Malfoy's tone was sharp, but Harry felt sure that he knew what Draco was really feeling at that moment: relief, hope, fear--and probably a bit of smug pride, knowing him, because of how obviously miserable Harry was without him.

Harry looked up at him, his burning green eyes boring into Draco's grey, and he didn't know who moved but suddenly Malfoy's chair had been overturned, the distance between them was gone, and they were falling together, clutching each other desperately as they hit the ground. They fell into a kiss that felt like cool water after being lost in a desert and their hands roved over each other, as if to confirm that everything was still right and as they remembered. They gripped each other so tightly there would be marks for days.

Before Harry could do anything more than mumble Draco's name incoherently, he felt those thin hands fumbling against him and heard the unmistakable clattering of a belt being undone. Using whatever strength he had left in those wiry arms, Draco flipped Harry over, tugging at his pants. For the briefest moment, the thought of just what they were doing, and where, crossed Harry's mind. But as soon as it had crossed, it was gone. Who _cared_ where they were? They both understood that this could possibly be the last time they'd ever see each other, the last chance they would ever have to be together like this. More than that, they both simply needed it at that moment. It was hard and rushed and painful and they both came in just minutes, unable to hold onto their control any longer.

Afterwards, breathing hard, Harry managed to gasp out, "'ope 's a siln' s'arm."

Draco laughed for the first time in a week as he asked, "What was that?"

Harry lifted his face from the cold floor and said more clearly, "I hope there's a silencing charm."

Hugging Harry to him tightly, Draco spoke softly into his ear, "I should think so. They wouldn't want anything that goes on in these rooms to get out." He nibbled at Harry's ear. "I'd be more worried about someone _watching_ if I were you, though. They always have observation rooms for these cells. Haven't you ever watched a Hollywood movie? Wonky mirrors and all that."

Grinning against the tile, Harry felt for a moment like everything was right in the world when Draco was trying to get a rise out of him. All he said was, "I hope they enjoyed the show." He rolled over, feeling Draco slip out of him, so that he could look up into that face and record every moment of this into his mind forever.

Draco still looked like he'd been through hell, but Harry suspected he didn't look much better himself. He watched as Draco drank in the sight of him just as desperately as he was doing, and he sighed as the blond put a shaking hand on his cheek. "Didn't think I'd ever be doing this again," Draco said softly, in that voice of his that seem so devoid of emotion only when he was feeling too much to bear. He tried to smile again. "I hear you went to the press for me?" He searched Harry's eyes. "You must have hated that."

Harry reached up and dug his fingers into that silky blond hair that he loved so much. Cradling Draco's head in his hands, he admitted, "I did. I hated having to talk about my personal experiences to someone I didn't know, and knowing that my words would be printed for every stranger in the Wizarding world to read and judge. But," he paused, straining up to plant a kiss on Draco's aristocratic nose. "But I didn't hate talking about you. I didn't hate remembering everything we'd been through, even if it was painful to think that..."

"That we might not ever get that back?" Draco finished for him. "We're not out of the woods yet, Potter."

Harry flinched as Draco reminded him of the reality that waited for them just outside the door. "I don't care," he said stubbornly. "If this doesn't work, then I will tear down every brick of Azkaban until I get to you." Now that he was face-to-face with Draco and looking down at the dark prospect of losing him again, Harry knew that he would do it. "We'll change our names, our faces, we'll go live in the wilds of bloody Siberia if we have to."

Draco tried to grin, but he failed. "You think I'd live in bloody Siberia for you?"

"Yes," Harry said with absolute conviction. He pulled Draco down until his lips brushed the other man's and all he could see in front of him were those grey eyes, and he whispered into Draco's mouth, "We're going to make it through this, Malfoy."

Relaxing just enough to sink into that kiss, Draco drank in the strength of Harry's resolve. He knew that believing it now would only make it worse when he went back to Azkaban, as he didn't doubt he would. But for this moment at least he wanted to turn off his cold logic, forget every tortuous, soul-rotting second of the past six days, and believe that Harry could save him.

Then came an urgent knock on the door and they both flinched. The real world was approaching and quickly. Harry scrambled to his feet, pulling Draco up as well. Cursing under his breath, he pulled up his jumper and grabbed onto the shirt he was wearing beneath it, tearing off a large piece of fabric with frantic strength. He did his best to clean up the mess they'd created, wiping himself and Draco clean before doing what he could for the floor. Then he tugged his jeans back up and quickly did his belt with badly shaking hands. He stuffed the damp piece of shirt in his back pocket, tugging his jumper down to cover the bulge and feeling an odd breeze where his stomach was now bare beneath the jumper. Finally Harry looked Draco in the face.

His eyes petrified, Draco pointed out weakly, "That was my shirt that you just destroyed, you know."

Harry grabbed him again and in between kisses, he whispered, "I can't..."

The door banged open and Draco slid out of his hold, until there was a foot of space between them and they were left grasping each other's forearms with white fingers.

Dean stood in the doorway and looked over them suspiciously. Neville was right behind him, saying in a matter-of-fact tone, "I don't see what the harm is in letting them talk for a moment. Neither has a wand and I was outside the door the whole time." He followed Dean into the room, looking about it surreptitiously, and he continued, "Besides which, your Aurors were patrolling the hall. There's no way they could have done anything."

Hermione leaned across the open doorway and raised a knowing eyebrow at the men's dishevelled state. She said mildly, "Everything seems in order, Dean. All right, Malfoy?"

The blond summoned a weak smirk for her, knowing that she still didn't like him all that much but that she was willing to put on a show of a united front for the Aurors.

Dean waved his Aurors in and they grabbed Harry and pulled him, protesting violently, away from Malfoy.

"What are you _doing?_ Let go of me!" He managed to shrug off one of the Aurors, who seemed a bit uncomfortable about manhandling Harry Potter, and with one arm free he took a swing at the Auror holding onto his other arm.

"Potter!" Draco's warning came but it was too late. Dean had drawn his wand and he immobilized Harry, leaving him unable to fight or speak or even turn for one last look at Draco's face before the Aurors hauled him back out of the room. Draco watched silently as he was dragged away.

Dean closed the door with a final click, leaving only himself, Neville, and Draco in the quiet room. "Now," he said in an unfriendly tone, "I think it's time you answered some questions, murderer."

Sighing to himself, Neville took a seat at the table.

 

 

In the other room, Hermione and Harry were sitting at an identical table, staring at a pot of tea. The Aurors had allowed Hermione to unfreeze her friend, but they had kept their own wands fixed on the two of them ever since. Hermione didn't doubt that her wand would soon be confiscated as well. Still she tried to be the calm one as she told a tense Harry, "They're just questioning him, Harry. It's perfectly normal and exactly what we wanted. Besides, Neville's in there; he'll make sure things are done properly."

Harry continued to wordlessly clench and unclench his fists as he eyed the Aurors with dislike and they returned the favour. Hermione tried to suppress an unhappy sigh. 

 

 

In Draco's room, Dean had thrown down a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ on the white table. He leaned in close to Malfoy's face and said softly, "So, you're just 'a bit soft' and you didn't want to hurt anyone--is that right? That's the story your little _boyfriend_ is telling everyone."

This was hardly the insult that Dean thought it was, and Draco ignored him, his eyes scanning across the interview Harry had given. It spoke of painful things--painful for both of them--but Draco smiled a bit to see how Harry spoke of him.

"Are you happy to be described as a snivelling coward?" Dean sneered when he saw Draco's lips had twitched into a smirk. "You couldn't help yourself--you couldn't even help your mother." Draco stiffened and the smile disappeared from his mouth, but he still didn't say anything to Dean's baiting him. "I heard," Dean said softly, coming around to speak into Draco's ear, "that they raped her in front of you, before they killed her." He came over to whisper in the other ear: "I hear they raped you, too, after you were captured. Sweaty old Death Eater after Death Eater, shoving their cocks up your arse and down your throat until you bled out of every hole."

Neville cleared his throat, looking meaningfully towards the quill that was automatically scribbling down every word they said and every move they made. Of course, what Dean had said hadn't yet been enough to warrant any sort of discipline--not when it was directed at a Death Eater. But it was the most Neville could do; that and hope that Dean cared more about his career than torturing Malfoy.

Dean seated himself in the chair opposite Draco and asked conversationally, "Is that why Potter seems so eager to get you out of here? Are you his plaything now, instead of the Death Eaters'? Do you take his big Golden Boy cock up the arse?" Draco's eye twitched and Dean watched closely. "Is he such a hopeless fuck that his only pleasure in life is shagging the only person more pathetic than he is? Is that the 'help' you gave him during the war?"

Draco leapt to his feet, his chair crashing to the ground. "Don't you say _a word_ about Potter in front of me, you ungrateful, weak, whiny little _shit_. You're trying to be the big hero now, eh? Big bad Auror, hauling in a magicless squib!" He laughed in Dean's face, his eyes cold. "Fuck you. You don't know the first thing about the war. You spent it hiding in a fucking castle. You don't even deserve to talk to Harry. You don't even deserve to talk to _me_."

When would silly lions ever learn to stop poking at snakes?

Draco spoke in as silky and dangerous a tone as Severus Snape had ever wielded as he told Dean, "Thank God your parents aren't around to see what a pathetic piece of trash you've turned out to be. It almost makes me glad I killed them."

Dean launched himself across the table and Neville followed with a shout. He tried to stop Dean as his fellow Auror attempted to beat the living hell out of their charge and he found himself no match for the other man's mindless rage. He rushed to the door and threw it open, bellowing for help from the other Aurors. The two who were on guard with Harry and Hermione rushed out, eager to do anything that might be more exciting than glaring at Harry Potter, especially if it might involve reprimanding the last free Death Eater. What a story to tell the crowds at the Leaky Cauldron!

Hermione didn't even have a chance to catch Harry's eye before he was off after them. He heard the sound of a struggle coming from the open door down the hall and he blew past the Aurors, arriving to see Neville struggling with Dean, who was kicking wildly at Draco despite the headlock that was turning his face an angry purple. Harry dove into the mess, dragging Malfoy beyond Dean's reach and then putting himself in Dean's face.

"If you ever _touch_ him again," he spat in his fury, "I will _end_ you." He let Dean see the full extent of his seriousness and bore into him with merciless green eyes, until the Auror felt as if he were staring down the Killing Curse itself. Harry threatened him softly, "And believe me when I say that killing you would be like swatting a fly compared to Voldemort."

Everyone in the room expected Dean, so famous for his temper ever since his Muggle parents had been killed by Death Eaters, to get even more inflamed and attack Harry next. In fact, all of the Aurors were edging nearer and reaching out to grab whatever bit of him they could to restrain him. To their shock, though, Dean had gone wan because of whatever he had seen in Harry's eyes. He stopped struggling against Neville and said stiffly, "Watch yourself, Potter. You haven't officially been charged with anything yet, but threatening an Auror will find you a cell of your own if you aren't careful."

The two men watched each other warily, both coming to realize that they didn't know each other at all, if they ever had. Looking over Harry's shoulder at Malfoy, who was trying to stop the blood oozing from his nose and split lip with the thin sleeve of his white suit, Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black key. He threw it at Malfoy, who reached out and caught it, just as Harry would have, just as any former Seeker would have. He disappeared in a blur, undoubtedly on his way back to Azkaban.

" _No!_ " Harry howled, slamming his fist into the table with an audible crack that everyone in the room winced at. Ignoring the pain in his probably broken hand, he screamed at the room in general, " _No!_ What is ever _enough_ for you people?! I saved your fucking lives, I saved the whole fucking _world_ that you live in! _What more do I have to fucking do before I get to be happy for once?!_ "

Dean managed to keep his control in the face of Harry's despair, and he said in a clipped tone, "Malfoy has been sent back to Azkaban. Tomorrow, the three of you--that's right, Hermione, I want to know more about your part in all of this as well--will report back here and be questioned under Veritaserum. If you refuse, so help me, I will have every one of you stashed away in Azkaban before we get this mess of yours cleaned up." He stepped closer to Harry and said in a low tone, "Be careful, Potter, or _I_ will be the one to _end things_."


	27. In Which There Was Hope

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

_In Which There Was Hope_

 

 

Draco blinked slowly at the men in front of him. He'd almost forgotten the way that Veritaserum felt. Dean and Neville were watching him, though with rather different expressions, and Dean was the first to speak up. "State your name for the record," he commanded Draco in a clipped tone.

"Draco Adonis Malfoy," he said, the words spilling from his mouth without any thought or decision from him.

His full name was surely listed in his criminal records, but still Dean snorted and asked with apparent amusement, "Adonis?"

Draco wanted to frown at the fool, but the potion only allowed him to speak and only then the factual truth. "From the legend of the youth who was so beautiful that the goddesses of love and death fought over him." _You uneducated idiot_ , he added in his mind.

Dean's levity left him soon, though, and his face settled into harsh lines as he next asked, "Are you the Draco Malfoy who was questioned five years ago regarding your actions as a Death Eater?"

"Yes, I am."

"Were you a Death Eater, acting on behalf of the Dark Lord?"

"Yes, I was."

"Did you kill my parents?"

"No, I did not."

Dean's eye twitched and he leaned further across the table as he repeated his question. "Did you kill my parents?"

"No, I did not."

The answer couldn't change, of course, but Dean couldn't forget Draco's taunt from the day before. He exclaimed angrily, "Tell the truth, goddammit! _Did you kill my parents?_ "

Draco repeated his denial mechanically, unable to do anything else, and Neville looked at Dean in consternation. "He _is_ telling the truth," he reminded his fellow Auror. "He can't _not_ tell the truth. He's not the one you're looking for."

"Were you there?" Dean asked sharply, ignoring Neville and looking straight at Draco.

"No, I was not."

"Do you know who did it?"

"No, I do not."

Neville considered interrupting, since this had nothing to do with the current suspicions against Malfoy, but he didn't want to anger Dean enough to be removed from the investigation. He watched without speaking as Dean continued.

"Do you have any idea who did it?"

"I could make an educated guess," Malfoy said, causing Dean to sit up straighter. At the Auror's command, he continued, "London, as I recall, in the spring of 1998. Around that time and area, I would guess either the Carrows or the Lestrange brothers. Both were famous for their taste for Muggles."

It seemed Dean might continue in this vein, but Neville took the chance to speak up and he asked, "Do you know why you are here today?"

"Yes," Draco answered in that matter-of-fact voice that he couldn't control. "I believe I do. The Ministry obviously suspects that I am trying to get my magic back and that I may be a threat if I do so, so I was thrown back in Azkaban. And I am out of Azkaban and here today because Potter made the situation embarrassing for the Ministry by getting the public's attention with a tell-all interview."

"And were you attempting to get your magic back?" Neville asked patiently, to Dean's dissatisfaction.

"We were researching it," Draco said precisely. "We hadn't made any attempts yet."

Dean jumped in and asked, "Just who do you mean by 'we'?"

_Sorry, Granger,_ Draco thought to himself as his mouth continued obligingly, "Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and myself." Now she was sure to be questioned and dragged into their mess, but he couldn't help it.

Neville tried to take back control of the questioning and he spoke up next. "How did the three of you come to start this research?"

Draco listened to his own voice curiously; it was an odd experience to hear yourself tell things not in the way you remembered them or viewed them, but simply as they were. "I had done what research I could on my own, but my library was ransacked by the Ministry and the information I needed was too rare to be found in any bookshop. I got Granger to offer her help in my research and access to Hogwarts' libraries by reuniting her with Potter, who she'd lost contact with since the war. Potter offered to help of his own accord, though I may have influenced him through his guilt regarding my losing my magic in the first place."

Dean hadn't been present at the last questioning, five years ago, but he'd heard enough of what had transpired then to know of Malfoy taking a curse for Harry. He didn't know any more than that, though, so he asked to hear just how it had happened.

"I'd taken Harry to the location of the last Horcrux and we managed to get near it, but there were all sorts of protections on it. One was the curse which struck me. I could see no way to remove the curse and so, assuming I would be dying sooner than later anyway, I let the curse act on me and tried to ensure that Harry would be able to go on to destroy Voldemort."

Draco was cursing himself in his mind.

Frowning, Dean started to ask, "Hold on now, what is a hor-"

Neville cut him off before he could finish the question, at which point Draco would be powerless to stop himself from answering. "We covered all of this the last time, Dean," he said bluntly, "The Horcruxes were weapons that Harry used against Voldemort. That's all. We're concerned with what's happening now. Malfoy, please tell us what you found out in your research."

The truth was that Neville and his superior, Hornblower, had been the two to question Malfoy the last time and learn the horrible truth of the Horcruxes. They had chosen to strike their description from the record of Malfoy's questioning and had both performed memory charms on themselves to forget the truth. All Neville could remember now was that the Horcruxes had been something so dangerous that no one should ever learn of them again. The knowledge of the Horcruxes should die with Draco and Harry, just as the knowledge of how to make them had died with Voldemort.

Happily Draco continued on with the present tale and said, "We had just found a possible theory that might have led us to find a way to restore my magic in some way. We didn't have any time to investigate further, though, before I was taken to Azkaban."

"Where did you find this information?"

"Among several original manuscripts in Hogwarts' vaults."

"They describe a way to create magic?" Dean asked with a bit of unhealthy fascination.

"No. They simply describe theories on the nature of magic and how it moves from one object or being to another. I have some ideas of directions to go in, to try to make a charm that would allow me to gather magic to myself, but that is all."

Neville asked the important question, "Did you tell your ideas to either Harry or Hermione?"

"No," Draco answered. "I only told Potter that I was onto something. I assume he relayed that information to Hermione. I'm the only one who has read the relevant manuscripts, as far as I know."

"If you were able to use magic again, what would you do?" Neville continued, asking the questions they needed for the record.

"I don't know." Draco answered, proving that he really hadn't thought that far ahead. "I'd like to fly a broom," he said honestly.

The two Aurors were staring at him, looking somewhat dumbfounded. Neville cleared his throat and continued, "Would you wish to hurt anyone with your magic?"

"Probably," Draco said, wincing internally.

Like a dog with a bone, Dean jumped on that and asked, "What do you mean by that?"

"I'm rather sure I would wish to hurt people from time to time. I generally find people to be tedious and idiotic."

"And you," Dean said coldly, "would attack others because you find them _tedious_."

"No," Draco said firmly. "I said I would _wish to_. I did not say that I would."

"Would you?"

"Possibly." _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. This was why Draco hated Veritaserum. Things came out all wrong when you couldn't colour them yourself.

Neville was shaking his head, his eyes scrunched shut, unable to watch Malfoy screw himself over.

 

 

 

"State your name for the record, please."

"Harry James Potter."

Harry would have started in surprise, if he could have. But the clear, flavourless potion that they'd made him drink had left him in the backseat, while his mouth took control of the wheels. He felt punch drunk and disconnected from his body, which didn't seem to mind at all as it continued answering questions whether he wanted to or not.

"You are here today because of your connection with former Death Eater Draco Malfoy, is that correct?"

"Yes, that's right," Harry answered Neville without any pause.

"What is your relationship with Malfoy?" Dean asked. Neville winced, having an inkling of what might come next.

"We make fun of each other and then we have lots of sex."

Harry already hated Veritaserum.

Neville glanced at the ceiling, as if looking for some divine intervention. He couldn't say he hadn't suspected it; what kind of Auror would he be if he hadn't? Apparently the type that Dean was, because his fellow inspector spluttered in shock, "You have _what?_ "

"Sex," Harry repeated, then clarified unwillingly, "Intercourse. Lots of it."

All lewd taunting to the contrary, Dean had never imagined that Malfoy and Harry were actually in a relationship. "You're lovers?" he asked flatly.

"You could say that, yes."

Dean asked coolly, "And what would you say?"

"He's the most important thing in my life." Harry had known that he'd felt that way, obviously, given the absolute misery he'd been in for the past week--but it was still odd to hear himself say it aloud.

"You're..." Dean had to get a hold of his incredulity, before he could continue. "You're _in love_ with Draco Malfoy?"

Was this love? Had he fallen in love with Draco Malfoy?

He had no choice and his lips rounded into that one final syllable: "No."

Harry was more shocked than either of the Aurors by his answer and he stopped listening to the conversation he was taking part in for several moments. Yes, he'd never admitted to himself that he might be in love but...

He didn't love Draco?

If this wasn't love, then what was it? If this wasn't love, _then what was?_

He was vaguely aware that Dean was asking about the seriousness of his relationship with Draco and he tried to listen again.

"Would you break the law for Malfoy?"

"Yes, I would," Harry answered, marvelling at himself. Why would he, if he didn't love him?

Neville flinched. Normally Veritaserum cases were much simpler; people either admitted that they were innocent or that they were guilty. They didn't normally involve watching a perfectly good person throw his own chances away.

"Do you wish to restore Malfoy's magic?"

"Yes and no."

"Explain yourself."

"If he wants it, then I want to give him that, especially since I'm the one who took it away. But I'm afraid that he won't need me anymore and he'll leave me."

"But you don't love him?"

"Not quite."

Neville glanced up from his notes and asked curiously, "'Not quite'? How do you 'not quite' love someone?"

Harry was just as curious to hear his answer as Neville was and he didn't have to wait long for his voice to spill from him: "I would love him, but I'm too afraid to."

Neville opened his mouth to ask more but then caught himself. It was utterly unfair and wrong to pry personal details out of a friend when he had no choice but to answer. He hesitated for a moment, then continued on the appropriate path of questioning. "Would you break into Azkaban for Malfoy?"

"Yes, I would."

"Would you restore his magic, if he wished it, even if it were considered a punishable act by the Ministry?"

"Yes, I would."

Dean muttered to Neville, "What more do you need to know?"

"Would you defy the rulings of the Ministry if you thought they were not in the best interests of Mr Malfoy?" Neville persisted, needing to be sure that they were absolutely clear.

"Yes, I would."

"Even if the rulings were in the best interest of society?"

"Yes, I would."

"Would you defy the rulings of the Ministry simply because they were not what you wished?"

"Yes, I would."

Neville sat back with a sigh. Neither of the two men was making it any easier for him. He only hoped they have more luck with Hermione.

 

 

 

"Your name, please, for the record."

"Hermione Jean Granger."

"And the reason you are here today?"

"Because of my relationship to Harry Potter and, through him, to Draco Malfoy."

"And what is that relationship?"

"Harry was my best friend as a young girl. Malfoy is Harry's lover."

Dean didn't even try to stop himself from asking, "And how do you feel about that?"

"I don't particularly like it," she said smartly and Neville wondered if they had even needed to use Veritaserum on her--she seemed almost unchanged. "I'm still ill at ease with Malfoy, but he has succeeded in getting Harry out of his shell, so I have accepted the situation."

Neville, as usual, tried to get back to subject at hand, asking, "How do you feel about the idea of Malfoy getting back his magic?"

"I would be just as happy for him to not get it back," she said immediately, though she had no choice under the potion's sway.

Needing to clarify for the record, he continued pressing her. "So you do not wish for Mr Malfoy to get his magic back?"

"No, not particularly."

Dean stared with a furrowed brow, asking rudely, "Then why do you help with it?"

Hermione answered with calm grace, "Because I promised to do so. I was grateful to him for bringing Harry back to me. I felt that deserved something in return."

Neville was practically holding his breath. He was silently wishing that Hermione wouldn't get herself strung up like Harry had. "Would you break the law for Malfoy?"

"No, I don't believe so."

He flinched and asked before Dean could get the chance, "Could you be more specific?"

"I would not try to break him out of Azkaban, if that is what you mean. Nor would I try to restore his magic if the Ministry had forbidden it. The only way in which I could imagine myself going against the Ministry would be if I thought justice was not being served. "

Neville mentally pumped his fist in the air. That should be enough to satisfy Dean and his hawks. Now if they could just get past the critical question, then at least he could feel less guilty about one person. He knew what the Ministry had in mind. He chose his next words very carefully.

"Would you go against the Ministry on the behalf of Harry Potter?"

"That would also depend."

Neville swallowed, praying she would respond in the same way again. "In what situation would you go against the Ministry?"

"If I thought he were being punished without due cause."

He wanted to kiss her. She should be safe. Now they just had to clear up the last point and Hermione at least should be free to go.

"How would you react if you were told you would never be able to meet Harry again?"

 

 

 

After each of the three had been given the appropriate antidote, they were assembled in yet another white holding cell. Knowing that their secrecy was long since blown, Harry didn't hesitate to rush to Draco, grabbing him in a quick, urgent hug. Then he stood back, though he still held onto one of Draco's hands, and with Hermione to one side and Draco to the other, he faced their fate in the form of two very different Aurors.

Neville glanced at Dean, who waved him ahead without a word. Clearing his throat, he began to speak uncomfortably. "I would like to thank you all for your cooperation today. It has been a long day, for all of us, I'm sure." Now he saw Dean looking impatient and he hurried along. "Based on the result of today's questioning, the Ministry is prepared to offer a deal, in light of Mr Malfoy's contributions in the downfall of the Dark Lord and, of course, Mr Potter's pivotal part in that same war."

Harry sucked in his breath and looked to Malfoy, a nervous little smile on his face. He squeezed Draco's clammy hand. He didn't even glance at Hermione, who was nowhere near smiling. She knew where this was going; they'd had to ask her about it, after all. She watched Harry expressionlessly.

"The Ministry is willing to let Malfoy go free--" Neville didn't get any farther for the moment, as Harry had shouted out, crowing their success. Struggling to get the excited wizard's attention back, Neville's voice rose louder.

" _If_ ," he said in a carrying voice, " _if_ Mr Malfoy undergoes thorough memory charming so that he would have no recollection that he ever was a wizard and would retain no knowledge of our world or the powers he once had."

Stunned into silence, Harry gripped Draco's slick hand. "You mean, you--you'd take away everything. Wouldn't you? Every memory he has must be linked to being a wizard!"

Dean smiled darkly, enjoying watching Neville's miserable expression as he had to explain to his friend what would happen. "That's right. He would have to forget his family, Hogwarts, everything that has happened until now." Neville's eyes shifted from Harry to Malfoy and he continued softly, "He would have to forget you, but he would at least be able to forget about the war, and everything that he did, and everything that was done to him."

Draco looked up at him with inscrutable grey eyes, understanding what Neville was trying to do, and the Auror continued awkwardly, "Of course, he would still be under supervision. The Ministry would keep tabs on him, but that would be all and no more than they have already been doing for the past five years."

Harry looked at Draco with wide eyes. Certainly it had to be better than Azkaban, but...

Dean spoke up, "That's not all though, is it, Neville?"

Harry's eyes flicked back to his old roommates. Hermione had to close her eyes and she turned away, not wanting to watch. Harry noticed at last and he half turned to search her expression.

Neville spoke into the confused silence. He told the man who had saved them all, "The Ministry can't trust that you wouldn't break the memory charms, Harry. This is a package deal. Malfoy only gets to go free if you agree to it as well--if you agree to be memory charmed and forget everything. Otherwise he's going to be sent back to Azkaban."

Harry's hand loosened, slipping from Malfoy's and falling limply to his side, empty.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the time this was written, I believe Draco had no confirmed middle name...I think.


	28. In Which There Are Lies

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

_In Which There Are Lies_

 

Harry and Draco sat opposite each other in strained silence. Draco watched Harry carefully as he stared at the small table between them. The Aurors had been 'kind' enough to give them some time alone to think.

He watched as Harry's eyes darted up to look at him and then skittered away. "So what do you think?" Harry asked at last.

Draco considered his words for a moment, then he shrugged in a way that he knew would look natural to Harry. "I think I'm not very surprised. I didn't expect them to simply let me walk out of Azkaban. Again."

It was true. Though he hadn't imagined an offer quite like the one the Aurors had made them, either. He'd been a fool to not think through the consequences of his research. He knew better than anyone that his lack of magic was all that had kept him from a life sentence in Azkaban. Squibs, like Muggles, couldn't survive the effects of Dementors for an extended period of time. He would have been dead within the year, and a death sentence was more than his interviewers had thought he'd deserved.

Draco had been lucky that the more vengeful Aurors had all been desperate to be out in the field in those days right after Voldemort's fall, hunting down the remaining Death Eaters in the field rather than conducting interviews and filing paperwork. That was how he had ended up across a table from Auror-in-Training Longbottom and his superior, and the two had been so horrified by the testimony he had given under Veritaserum that they had recommended house arrest and monitoring rather than Azkaban. His manor had been scrubbed of anything that could be considered dangerous, most all of his known associates were either dead or under lock-and-key, and his surprising champions had been able to convince the acting minister that Malfoy had already paid for his crimes.

But they had a different minister these days, and an MLE office littered with Aurors who had found that locking up the last of the Death Eaters hadn't brought back their friends or loved ones, nor had it magically relieved their anger or grief. Some, like this Dean Thomas, had probably been praying for the chance to bring Draco up on some new charges. Given some of the things that Draco had read in the papers about latest minister's political leanings, he was surprised he'd been offered any sort of deal at all.

"No, I mean..." Harry finally worked up the courage to meet Draco's eyes without flinching. "What do you think of their offer? Of forgetting?"

Giving a subtle smirk, with just the right hint of patronizing disappointment, Draco answered, "What do you expect me to say? That I'd rather stay in Azkaban? That the precious memories of my father's abuse, my mother's murder, and the things I did and had done to me as a Death Eater are worth more to me than a life away from Dementors?"

That silenced Harry, of course. Draco continued, unable to help himself, "I could say I don't know what I'd be if I weren't a wizard. But of course I do--I'm not a wizard now. The only difference would be that I wouldn't know what I'm missing anymore."

Harry took a shaky breath. "So you think you'd be happier? You would do it?"

Draco flinched. He was lashing out but against the wrong person. This wasn't how he wanted to spend his last minutes with Harry. He didn't mean to leave Harry questioning this decision for the rest of his life. He took a deep breath and let go. "Look," he said, in a quiet, reasonable tone. "Answer me one question. You still have to answer me truthfully." He gave Harry a hint of a smile. "You remember the game. So tell me the truth: do you love me?"

Harry looked horrified, but Draco knew he would answer truthfully. Those green eyes drifted downwards, shuttered by his thick lashes. "They asked me that. With the Veritaserum. I said no."

The small smile stayed fixed on Draco's face. If he really could forget, he would willingly forget his whole life, just to forget this moment as well. But he wasn't on Veritaserum and he didn't have to obey the rules of any game, so he could still lie: "Me, too."

Hoping no soft-hearted fool like Longbottom would out him, he carried on. "This isn't some epoch-making love affair worth throwing your life away for--"

"What life?" Harry interrupted bleakly.

Waving a hand, Draco forged on. "No, you have a life, Potter. You have friends, possibilities, even an insane hot stalker. This was just a dalliance between you and me. Just a fling. How long do you think it would have been before we were at each other's throats again?" _Oh, god, take me back to Azkaban now_ , he thought as he smiled wryly at Harry. _It can't be worse than this_.

Then he continued to destroy the only thing he cared about--and with it, his last hope. "Just let it go," he told Harry firmly. "You and I--we were never going to amount to anything. Just go and don't look back."

Harry was gaping at him wordlessly. Draco could see that he wanted to deny it, that he wanted to promise that they were worth it--but he couldn't. "That's right," Draco said. "You know it as well as I do." He stood up and held out his pale, cold hand. It didn't even tremble. He said, "It's been a pleasure, Harry Potter."

In a daze, Harry stood up and took that hand. Then he wrapped his other hand around it as well. He stood there, clinging to that last piece of Draco.

Nearly grimacing as he stared at those hands holding his, Draco admitted weakly, "Well, it hasn't all been a pleasure." He twisted his lips into a bland smile. "But it's been enough." He met Harry's bewildered gaze head on. "It's enough, Harry."

The door swung open. The Aurors who had been watching through the charmed wall must have thought that time was up. Draco pulled his hand from Harry's grip and stepped back. One of the Aurors came and took Harry by the arm, leading him out of the small, white room. He watched Draco until the last possible moment, as the door shut between them.

 

 

  
  
In another white room, Hermione was waiting uneasily. Her head shot up when the door opened and Harry staggered in. His Auror escort pushed him into the room and then shut the door.

"Harry," she said in a pained tone as she jumped up to help him to a seat. "What happened? What did he say?"

Looking wan in the harsh lights, Harry said dully, "He told me it was enough." He looked down at his hands. "He shook my hand and then he told me it was enough."

Hermione sighed in relief. For once, Malfoy had done the right thing, it seemed. She grabbed Harry's hands and said softly, "Then we'll give Neville your answer, Harry. Don't worry--you're making the right decision."

He looked at her. "I haven't made any decision or given any answer," he said. "Draco may have said it's enough, but that's _his_ answer, not mine."

"No, Harry," Hermione said desperately, " _no_ , don't--don't even consider--" She let go of his hands to grab his face, forcing him to stare at her, though he hadn't even tried to turn away. "Malfoy doesn't want it! There's nothing left to consider!"

Harry gave her a pained smiled. "Wouldn't you have told me the same thing, if it were you? Wouldn't you tell me not to throw my life away for you?"

Her hands slipped from his open face. "You don't mean..." she whispered.

"I mean," he said, sighing, "that I need to think."

Hermione stumbled back and sat heavily in one of the uncomfortable white chairs. The moulded plastic was unforgiving.

She had agreed to this. Under Veritaserum. When she'd had no choice but to be honest with herself, she had known that it was no longer up to her to interfere with Harry's life. They would always be friends, based on what they had shared in their youth, but she knew that they had grown apart and that he had his own life utterly independent of her now. She would respect his decisions--once he'd made them. But until he had decided, she could still try to ensure that he was making the best decisions possible. She tried to sound reasonable as she said in a placating tone, "Harry, you can't really be considering it, though, right? To give up your whole life, your _self_ , for a good shag?"

He looked thoughtful as he sat down as well. He looked at Hermione and she wanted to flinch away from the intensity in his piercing stare. "Tell me," he said at last, "how would you leave _anyone_ you knew--let alone anyone you'd cared enough about to be intimate with--to slowly lose their mind in Azkaban? How would you live every day, knowing that you had sacrificed someone else's life for your own? Let alone someone you l--" He stopped suddenly and Hermione scrambled in her mind for an answer that would convince him.

Her massive brain, her impeccable logic, the tomes of knowledge she had absorbed--they all failed her and as she struggled for words, Harry continued with words that stopped her in her tracks. "You've never killed anyone, Hermione."

He looked at her with an expression that could have been pity for her or for himself. "All those years that you and Ron went face to face with Death Eaters for me, you stuck to your stunning spells and disarming and immobilising. No matter how much you hated the Death Eaters, you never even tried to kill any one of them."

Harry smiled sadly. "I know that they were horrible people. I know that Voldemort was more a monster than a person. I know that he had to be stopped. But when I murdered him," Harry said and he looked straight at her, "and of course it was _murder_. I _killed_ him. I chose for him to die for myself to live." Hermione was staring at him silently, transfixed. "And I _hated_ him, Hermione. I really did. For my parents, for Sirius, for Ron, and mostly for myself. For making me into what I was." He reached out and took Hermione's hands, cradling them in a gentle hold. "Do you understand? I _hated_ him and yet killing him nearly destroyed me. I've never been able to forget it for a day. If you can understand even a little what that's like, then imagine what it would be like to kill someone I don't hate. Not even a little." He sighed and smiled weakly. "Someone who feels as necessary to me as air."

"Then you're going to--" she asked in a choked voice.

"Hermione, please!" He chided her with almost a hint of a smile. "I told you, I haven't made any decision yet. I'm just trying to explain to you what is going through my head right now. I want you to understand, whatever decision I make, because either way it seems I'm going to be left a mess of a person."

Hermione pulled one of her hands free to cover her face, scrubbing away the tears that were leaking from her eyes. "Yeah," she admitted through her tears, "I think that's probably true." She watched Harry as he evenly met her eyes. Gnawing on her lip for a long moment, she stopped at last and whispered what she was thinking. "But I feel like you've already decided."

He looked to the door. "There are some places I'd like to go."

 

 

 

Neville, Hermione, and Harry rode the elevator in heavy silence, until Harry's hand shot out and he stabbed the button for the seventh level. Neville, who had been assigned as their minder, looked at him in consternation and Harry simply said, "There's someone I want to see."

The doors slid open on Level Seven and Harry glanced at the signboard before striding down the left hallway towards the Ludicrous Patents Office. Neville and Hermione followed after him, having little choice. They caught the door to the office just as it was swinging shut from Harry's entrance, and they arrived behind him just in time to hear him say, "I'm sorry for the intrusion, but is Matilda Bolger available?"

A mousy young woman jumped up from a nearly invisible desk in the far corner. She rushed over at nearly a run and said smartly, "Of course, Mr Potter. What can I do for you this time?"

Harry smiled at her, glad to see that she was as charmingly cheeky as he remembered. "If I'm lucky, I'll never have to visit this bloody building again, but before I leave, I wanted to thank you again for all of your help." He took her hand and gave her a peck on the cheek, genuinely grinning as a wave of shock went through the office. It was like something Malfoy would have done and he was pretty certain no one would ever overlook Matilda in the same way again, and that was enough to satisfy him. He excused himself and, together with his escorts, left the room to buzz in excited gossip about how their tea lady knew Professor Granger, Inspector Longbottom, and the Chosen One himself, Harry Potter.

 

 

 

Less than ten minutes later, the three of them were standing mutely in front of Number 4, Privet Drive, staring at the wonders of Muggle suburbia. Neville had apparated them over, since both Harry's and Hermione's wands had been temporarily confiscated "just as a precaution." Now he stood in wonderment in front of a row of Muggle houses, each of which looked exactly like the last. "How does anyone know which one is theirs?" he asked absently.

"The numbers help," Hermione answered, looking at Harry and not him. "Are you going to go in?"

Harry stared at the house where his presence had been barely tolerated for ten years. "No," he said in soft voice, "I don't think so. I don't really want to talk to them. I just wanted to see it, somehow." His eyes roved over the familiar house. It seemed smaller than he remembered it. "It was never my home. They never even gave me my own room. They hid me in a cupboard. They made me live and sleep in a _cupboard_. From the time I was one until I was eleven. If I wasn't cooking or cleaning for them, I was supposed to stay in there, out of sight. If I didn't, my uncle would..."

He stopped speaking. With a sigh, he said aloud what he'd always known. "They never loved me. They never even cared if I lived or died." After several moments, he said, "Let's go."

 

 

  
  
They apparated to the spot just outside the gates of Hogwarts, just a step outside of the wards. Hermione and Neville looked to Harry expectantly, wondering what he thought about this stop on his trip down memory lane. But he didn't say a word aloud.

He gazed across the school grounds to the castle, small and hazy in the distance. He'd lived in the castle almost half as long as he had at the Dursleys', and yet there were so many more memories left in this place. In there were his first friends, his first Christmas presents, his first kiss, and his first love. There he had met Malfoy nearly every day for six years. There he had spent delirious days and nights with him in the past weeks. There he had first come face to face with the spectre of Voldemort that had survived killing his family. There he had met suspicion and alienation. There he had watched Lupin be defeated by society's prejudices. There he had been Portkeyed away to see the first of his friends killed. There he had carved hateful words into his own skin. There he had watched Dumbledore die.

 

 

 

They were in a wild forest in Norfolk. Neville hadn't at first realised what the place was when Harry had told him where to go, but then an odd sense of familiarity had spurred his memory on: this was where they had found Voldemort's body. Or what was left of it.

This time, Harry started talking immediately, as if to fill the silence. "I've never told anyone just what happened. I've never even talked about that night. Not even to Malfoy." He looked around at the trees. "It wasn't just Voldemort, of course. He'd never face me without his Death Eaters around him to witness it." Then Harry told them about the Death Eaters he had killed and how. Neville listened patiently, having seen and heard it all in his line of work. Hermione grew more and more disturbed, her hand clasped over her mouth to keep down the sobs she could feel fighting up her throat. She'd had no idea of the things that Harry had done.

"I had to take them out as quickly as possible. There were too many of them; I was outnumbered. The only way to get to Voldemort was to get rid of them. And I knew I couldn't lose this chance to stop Voldemort at last. The Horcruxes had been destroyed, you and Ron were both out of the picture, and it was time to just let things end. Finally it was just him and me left. He looked furious and I think he considered Disapparating away. No one else would know, after all, and he could face me again someday when he had more support. But I think he still believed that I was no real match for him. So he came at me."

He knelt down and dug his fingers into the dirt. "Bellatrix Lestrange had taught me that to use the Unforgivables, you had to really mean it. I could finally mean it. He threw the Cruciatus curse and the Killing curse at me, and I threw them right back at him. But our wands were still connected and we were even enough in strength that we could only waste our energy by throwing equal curses at each other. So I switched to minor spells. I lashed out at him with the Sectumsempra curse, the same curse I had learned from Snape and used on Malfoy in sixth year. He'd never seen it before, that much was obvious. I cast it again and again, before he could find a way to defend against it. I don't even know the counter-curse myself--only Snape did, before he died." Harry let the dirt fall through his fingers and returned to Voldemort's end. "He was covered in blood. He couldn't even stand. The curse had cut through his flesh and his muscles. He finally collapsed and he bled to death in this forest, surrounded by the bodies of his followers."

Harry brushed the dirt from his fingers, though they still weren't completely clean. "He died an utterly physical death. No mystic slipups or loopholes to allow him to come back this time. He was just dead."

 

 

 

"What is this place?" Hermione yelled over the wind.

"It's a tor," Harry called back as they stood on top of the lone hill in Glastonbury. That was all he said, though, and he slowly lifted his arms. He held them out, stretching them out as wide as he could, and he let his head fall back. His eyes fell shut and all he was aware of was the feeling of the wind moving around him. He turned his head to the side, still seeing in his mind the image of Draco standing there, looking as if he would fly away and disappear into the wind. That day, just a month ago, he had reached out and grabbed the man, unable to watch him disappear, and Draco had clung to him in return. Opening his eyes to the empty sky above him, Harry took a deep breath and then he let go.


	29. In Which All Will Be Found

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

_In Which All Will Be Found_

 

 

Harry Potter woke up in his bed disoriented. As he shook away the last of sleep's haze, he wondered if he had been dreaming. There was no reason to feel disoriented, after all; he'd woken up in this bed every day for the past five years.

He hauled himself up and stumbled out into the short hallway. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, not needing them to follow his feet into the kitchen. He opened the door to the refrigerator and leaned on it as he peered at his meagre provisions. Grunting in dissatisfaction, he grabbed the quart of milk and started to drink straight from the carton. Then he gagged.

He spun around and spat a mouthful of curdled milk into the sink. He immediately turned on the tap and ladled handfuls of water to his mouth, trying to get rid of the disgusting taste and feel of the bad milk. Trying not to retch, he spun the carton around to see the expiry date. It said 17 October. Then Harry paused.

What day was today? He had no idea. He couldn't even remember what season it was. Beginning to feel the cool chill of alarm spreading from his hands and up his arms, he jumped over the couch and grabbed the remote control for the telly, jabbing the buttons and watching as the screen burst into life. He flipped through the channels until he arrived at a news program, with the date and time written in the corner. The twentieth of December. December? It was nearly Christmas. What had he been doing? He tried to remember the past few days but he had no recollection of them.

Falling back onto the couch in shock, he stared to his left. He asked the empty room, "And when did I get a piano?"

 

 

 

"Oh, bugger."

Draco Malfoy woke up in an unfamiliar room. Or at least he thought it was an unfamiliar room, but then when he tried to think of his own room, he came up with a blank. He looked around slowly. The room was completely white and personality-less. This couldn't be his room, he felt pretty confident about that. He got up and tried to snoop around but when he pulled open the cheap-looking wardrobe, he found that it was full of his own clothes. "Huh," he said quietly to himself. "Well, bugger me." He looked around the small room, somehow feeling that he should live somewhere more impressive.

A few minutes later, having donned a pair of trousers and a grey pullover, he opened the door onto an equally unfamiliar hall. Mentally shrugging, he walked out into what appeared to be the main room of the tiny house. There was a man sitting there, dark head cradled in his hands, and Draco asked mildly, "What are you doing in my house?"

The man's head shot up and he stared at Draco, looking flabbergasted. "This is my house!" he said, though he didn't sound so sure.

"Oh, good." Draco was happy enough to agree and he asked, "Then what am I doing in your house?"

"I don't know," the man said, his expression cloudy. Draco already had formed the impression that this was a fellow prone to getting overwrought about things.

"So...you don't know me?" he asked in an easy tone, luckily not suffering the same problem.

The man looked him, and Draco noticed that he had spectacularly green eyes. Shaking his head, the stranger said, "I don't think so..." He sounded worried as he continued, "I don't think I can remember, well, much of anything."

Draco sauntered over and threw himself down on the couch next to the stranger. He leaned back, his hands folded behind his blond head, and he grinned. "Must have been one hell of a party."

"Do you remember how you got here? Or how I might know you? Or what the hell happened to the past two months of my life?"

Raising his eyebrows at the other man, Draco said, "Really, one hell of a party." In fact, though, he had also noticed that he couldn't remember much of anything himself. Who could miss that? Except of course a raging alcoholic prone to blackouts. At any rate, he knew his name. He knew this was England. He knew the name of the Queen and the current standing of all the football teams and how to drive a motorbike. But he didn't remember the names or faces of his parents, if he had any siblings, if he had a job, where he had grown up or gone to school, or how he might have possibly ended up apparently living in this man's house.

He jumped to his feet and stood in front of the troubled fellow, saying, "If we don't remember, mate, maybe it's better that way. I've had my fair share of piss ups--I think--and there's hardly anything you might have done that you'd actually _want_ to remember. But I suspect the memories of whatever embarrassing escapades we might have engaged in will come back to haunt us soon enough." He smirked, his eyes bright with humour. "My name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

"Harry Potter," the man mumbled in a daze.

"You'll soon find out some parties are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go getting pissed at the wrong sort. I can help you there."

He held out his hand to shake Harry's, but Harry didn't immediately take it. Instead he looked up at Malfoy, getting the strangest sense of déjà vu. He slowly reached out a hand and clasped Malfoy's white hand firmly. There was something so familiar about all this that he felt better suddenly. Whatever had happened, he and this Malfoy were apparently in it together. He tightened his grip on the blond's hand and at last he began slowly to smile.

 

 

 

Outside in the bushes, from beneath James Potter's invisibility cloak, Hermione watched as her friend began his new life. He had left her the cloak, along with all of his photos of his parents and everything else. His wand had been destroyed. She watched as he made sense of a life without her, the last of the Trio. Ron was lost to her and now Harry had forgotten all of their times together. Of course, he would eventually notice the note that she had left him and, as had been agreed upon with the Ministry, she would "remind" them of their Muggle bank accounts, where all of their Galleons had been converted into pounds. She would do what she could to help them, at least until the winter hols ended and she was due back at Hogwarts. But they would never know that they had all once lived together in the magical world. Thing would never be the same.

But then she remembered what Harry had told her just before he had been charmed:

Things might never be the same--but they might just be better.


End file.
